Company of Champions
by Cinderarc
Summary: A daring plan is carried out during the Quidditch World Cup. Followed by the rise of a new Champion. What comes next?
1. The World Cup

**Disclaimer: **The usual disclaimers apply.

* * *

**Company of Champions**

_The Laurel Snare_

* * *

A song, made of nothing but imagination, immortalized in script and the voices of thousands, breaks across the bright blue skies.

It careens all over, whipping men, women, and children, irrespective of garb, humor, and status, into a frenzy of passion and anticipation. Throats strain with the lyrics of the songs, while patriotic joys beat within their hearts. Each song crests louder than the previous, accompanied by the thunderous beat of the percussion instruments. Smoke, colored in the hues of shamrock green and dark scarlet, drift about in the air from each of the camps' directions. Over the fairgrounds, the pigments clash, blend, and dissolve into nothingness under the summer sun.

Harry closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, committing the sensations of the past few minutes to memory. Everything was somehow too good to be true–and yet–here he was! At the Quidditch World Cup!

Around him, salespeople traipsed about, shouting their wares and holding trays full of merchandise, while others pushed carts laden with fantastic souvenirs and tokens, ranging from scarves to models of famous players. House elves flitted about, perusing the various stalls, while a party of goblins was being given a wide berth by the crowd. Occasionally a dissonant beat punctured the hubbub, clear to only those who paid attention. A stall selling Quidditch supplies caught his eye, and his smile widened at the sight of the encased showpiece gifted by his only family.

_Sirius_, he pondered._ I wish you could be here. But I hope that the South, or wherever you may be, is treating you well._

At that very moment, a shaggy head stiffened and cocked sideways, causing a feminine voice in the throes of pleasure to cry out querulously. Next moment, the act continued as though there was no interruption.

Blissfully unaware, Harry strolled around the shopping hub, taking in the sights of the fantastic and dazzling magical wares and attractions. One caught his attention, and the sparkle grew in his eyes as he hurried over to the cart laden with strange instruments that, oddly enough, resembled binoculars.

What are these?" he asked, looking up excitedly. Someone tapped his shoulder, a familiar touch. Ron and Hermione.

"Omnioculars, sir!" responded the saleswizard, smiling broadly. "You can replay action, slow it down, and there's also a play-by-play function! Very useful and a must have, if I may say so!"

"How much?"

"Ten Galleons, but how about you take some for your friends, and I'll call at 6 Galleons apiece?" the saleswizard said, his gaze genially indicating Hermione and Ron.

"Deal," Harry said firmly, ignoring Ron's squawk of protest. "Don't bother, Ron–take this."

"No, I can't," Ron said, his features reddening. "Mate–"

"Fine, fine, nothing for you on Christmas," Harry shot back, taking the Omnioculars proffered by the saleswizard. "Thanks. Better?"

"Cheers, mate!" Ron said, grinning.

"Ooh, thanks, Harry! I'll get us some programs–look!" Hermione said happily.

She set off. Harry made to follow when someone spoke behind him.

"Excuse me!"

"Hmm?" He turned and saw a young girl, who couldn't have been more than 9 years old. "Err, hi..."

"You're Harry Potter, right?" she asked, and at Harry's nod, beamed. "Could you please sign this for me?"

And she held out a children's book. On the cover was a moving version of him battling a dragon. He blinked and read:

_HARRY POTTER AND THE DRAGON_

_What the? How come there is a book about me, and I don't know about it? Wait...didn't Hermione mention something about this during our first year?_

"Mr. Potter?" asked the girl.

"Hm? Oh, sure, I'd be happy to," Harry said, taking the proffered quill. "Will it be OK if I sign on the first page?"

_Norma Bagley_

He committed the name to memory, and neatly signed the first page.

"Are there more such books about–" he asked, handing the book back to the girl.

"Yes! There's an entire series about you, detailing all your adventures!"

He frowned. It sounded like this Bagley was profiting off his name, and that wasn't something he appreciated.

"Natalie! Didn't I tell you not to go running away by yourself?" called out a pretty girl hurrying towards them.

"But Sis, this is Harry Potter!" whined Natalie.

"Harry Potter–what do you mean–oh my gosh, Mr. Potter!"

"Hi," Harry repeated.

"He signed my copy for me, Sis. The one you gifted me yesterday."

"Why, thank you very much, Mr. Potter. I hope she wasn't much of a bother to you," said the girl.

"No, not at all," Harry replied, and the girl smiled sweetly at him.

"Such a gentleman! Come on, Natalie. Mum and Dad are waiting for us. Take care, Mr. Potter."

"Bye, Harry!"

He waved at the retreating duo and turned to see Ron next to him.

"What did they want?" Ron asked, his eyes fixed on the girls.

"Just my autograph."

"Ah. Right."

There was something in Ron's voice that Harry couldn't quite put his finger on.

"C'mon, let's go. Hermione's over there."

Over time, the rest of the Weasleys joined them. Fred and George had nothing, having spent all their gold on a long-shot wager with Bagman. Bill, Charlie, Percy, and Ginny were all wearing bright green rosettes, and Mr. Weasley was waving an Irish flag.

And then the moment came; when the fever pitch seemed to reach an insurmountable crescendo, there was a thunderous cannon boom that echoed over and over. Cheers and yells broke out, reverberating everywhere under the dusky skies, and the very ground seemed to shake with thousands of feet bounding towards the stadium.

"Finally!" Mr. Weasley exulted. "Let's go!"

Together, the party joined the rambunctious crowd until they were able to ease off into a lantern-lit trail within a canopy of woods. Conversation flowed loudly until they reached the outskirts, and found themselves at the end of a line outside one of the entrances. Ahead of them loomed the Quidditch World Cup Stadium, and it was _huge_. Golden light illuminated the endless walls, set round in an oval shape.

"Top Box! Go straight ahead and keep going higher and higher!" announced the Ministry official as she handed in the stubs.

It was a long but very satisfying climb to the top. Everywhere Harry looked, the entire stadium was packed with noisy fans and spectators, waving banners, flags, and signs. Flashlights streamed about, illuminating sections of the screaming and singing hordes–it was like the final of a football game that he'd once glimpsed on the Dursleys' TV, except the scale was much larger and grander.

They neared the Top Box, strategically set at a vantage point where they had a panoramic view of the stadium and the gigantic board suspended at the center of the pitch. To Harry's surprise, parts of the board displayed the stadium from different angles. It resembled a huge TV board, and on the upper part of the board, gold handwriting spouted off advertisements.

"Blimey!" Ron exclaimed, looking around. "How high are we?"

"Put it this way, Ron, if it rains, you'll be the first to know," Charlie chuckled, playfully slapping his brother's back.

The Top Box was already filled with a few people, who were richly garbed and strolling around, greeting each other. Harry immediately recognized Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, who was soliciting greetings and smiling genially. Next to him was a distinguished looking wizard dressed in robes of red velvet trimmed with gold. He did not seem to understand English, if Fudge's mimes were anything to go by with. On his other side stood a cheerful looking man with ruddy features favoring emerald green robes with sky blue linings and a broad grin as he shook hands.

"Harry! Good to see you, my boy!" Fudge said, bustling over to Harry. "Come, come, there are a couple of people eager to meet you!"

Upon seeing the Minister arrive, Percy sank into a bow and suffered the indignity of his glasses to slip and crack. In an attempt to save face, he slunk away and sat down at the far right corner along with his family, occasionally shooting death glares at Harry, who was being ushered to the waiting dignitaries.

"Harry, my boy, this is the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, Oblansk…Oblansk, oh something," Fudge trailed off, shaking his head and turned to the man who was staring at Harry with surprise. "This is Harry Potter...Harry Potter–oh come on now, surely you know who he is–"

"The boy who survived You-Know-Who," interjected the other man respectfully, and held out his hand to Harry. "Reagan Gillian, Irish Minister of Magic."

All of a sudden, there was an exclamation from the Bulgarian Minister, and he started jabbering, while enthusiastically indicating Harry's scar.

"About time," Fudge sighed wearily, then brightened up and strode past Harry.

Curious, Harry turned and saw a family of three enter the Top Box. All bore the same haughty expression and arrogance in their stiff postures. The males' platinum hair shimmered dully in the darkness of the sky.

"There you are, Lucius!" Fudge greeted the Malfoys.

Draco and Harry eyed each other contemptuously. Next to Draco, the tall, elegant woman who could only be his mother, placed her hand on his shoulder, and her lips twisted into an imperious smirk.

It was a subtle, yet obvious message. Harry gritted his teeth, when a familiar hand too rested on his shoulder. He glanced up to see Mr. Weasley behind him. Like Harry, he too was watching the Malfoys–but his attention was fixed on Lucius Malfoy, who had dispensed with his greeting and was now moving towards them.

"Good Lord, Arthur," Lucius said, his voice soft and sardonic. "What did you have to do to get seats here? Surely your hovel isn't worth this much?"

"We are here on the personal invitation of the Minister himself," Draco cut in before Mr. Weasley could speak.

"Don't boast, Draco. These people are..." Lucius glanced from his son to Harry and Mr. Weasley. "...not worth it. Do enjoy yourself, won't you? While you can..."

Smirking, Lucius strode away with his wife on his arm. Draco shot Harry a disdainful sneer and followed his parents.

"Ignore them, Harry," Mr. Weasley said, patting Harry's shoulder.

Harry said nothing. Irritation coursed through him, borne out of the taunts from the Malfoys. So many times he had got one over the Malfoys, and yet, somehow a single meeting of little importance got under his skin.

His fingers curled into fists. He burrowed them in his pockets, and looked around, trying to reign in his rising anger.

_Why? They are no better than bullies, so why do they affect me so much?_

Sometimes he despised himself so much. For feeling so inadequate and inferior even in a new world where he was one of them. Behind the surface, the marks left behind by the abuses of the Dursleys lingered, waiting for the dam to break.

_What could I have done?_ he mulled, as he examined an advertisement for Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans–A Risk with Every Mouthful!

Bit by bit his frustration simmered away. He was loath to admit it, but there was nothing that he could have done–short of replying with a biting remark. Which was not his forte.

"Harry? Come on, let's go and sit down," Mr. Weasley said.

He did not care to reply and headed over next to Hermione. Taking a deep breath to calm himself down, he consciously pushed the negative emotions aside and contemplated the stadium. Slowly, the infectious atmosphere started to work its charm, and soon he was enthusiastically fiddling with the Omnioculars.

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome! Welcome to the 422nd Quidditch World Cup!"

Cheers broke out at Ludo Bagman's opening words. Surveying the crowd with his Omnioculars, Harry saw the sparkling outlines of thousands of Omnioculars winking at their direction.

"And, now, let's meet the teams and give them a rousing welcome!" More cheers. "Join me in welcoming the Irish Team! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Connolly! Ryan! Annnnnnnd Lynch!"

With every green blur that flashed out into the stadium, an introductory clip of the player played on the board and the walls of the stadium. Green fireworks exploded, while the leprechauns joined together, creating the first letter of the player in the dark skies.

Focusing through his Omnioculars, Harry saw that each of the players had Firebolts. He smiled, remembering his own Firebolt, and recalling its impeccable speed and control. Well, it would be a frenetic and fast-paced match. Plus, it would also be the first time he would be spectating a player on a Firebolt.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen! Let's give a big hand and welcome the Bulgarian National Team! Here we have—Ivanova! Dimitrov! Levski! Volkov! Vulchanov! Zograf! Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnd KRUM!"

There was no doubt about it; the stadium positively exploded into an insensible cacophony of screams and yells at the entrance of the Bulgarian Seeker. Harry followed Krum, as he did a lap around the stadium, marveling at how he held himself and the broom–like it was an extension of his body. It was amazing to think that he was only 18.

All of a sudden, a strange sensation tugged on his mind even as the crowd broke out into a huge roar, and people around him stood up excitedly. Over the din, the first strains of foreign music rose into the night sky.

"That's the Veela!" Mr. Weasley exclaimed.

To Harry, it felt like bliss, an urge to stand and worship whoever those Veela were. He wanted to impress them, to show off to them, to adore them...

Or else...

_Why?_

The tiny voice was so soft, yet it was more potent than any potion. He shook his head and the suggestive haziness melted away.

"Honestly!" Hermione huffed next to him, rising and crossing over to Ron, who was gaping and pressing his Omnioculars into his face as he stared down at the Veela on the pitch. "Men!"

Looking around the Top Box, Harry noted that nearly everyone was standing and pressed at the edge of the railing, save for the grumpy females and...one other man.

Their gazes met, and the man smiled wryly, raising his hand in greeting. "Hello, Mr. Potter."

"Hi," Harry responded a little awkwardly.

"Oh, where are my manners? I'm Sebastian Delacour from the French Ministry of Magic. It is a pleasure to meet you," he said, leaning forward and extending his hand.

"Likewise," Harry responded, reaching out and shaking hands–the dark-haired man had an affable charisma around him.

"I confess myself to be a bit surprised, and impressed, Mr. Potter," Sebastian went on. Seeing Harry's guarded expression, he smiled. "It's more to do with now...the fact that you can resist the allure is impressive in itself."

"That's what they are under?" Harry asked, connecting the dots. "So that thing the Veela do...that's their allure?"

"Non. It's not what they do. More like control," Sebastian corrected and nodded at the crowd. "A pity really."

"How are you not affected by them?" Harry asked.

The other man smiled, his expression wistful. "I'm married to one. She's a wonderful person and the love of my life. I was also able to resist the allure like you when I first met her. It's no easy feat."

A great roar suddenly broke out, accompanied with rapturous applause. Both looked up to see the crowd stirring and people returning to their seats.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter. I hope to see you again soon. Good luck!" Sebastian said.

"Same to you, Mr. Delacour," Harry replied, smiling. "Enjoy the match!"

Angry yells and boos rained down from the spectators but did little to stop the match from continuing. The Weasleys settled in their seats, looking a bit abashed, but pleased all the same. Ron started tearing a green colored flag into small bits, and Mr. Weasley tugged it away.

"And now, let us introduce the referee! Hassan Mostafa from Egypt!"

The man in question came on to the pitch, lugging a huge crate. Upon reaching the center of the pitch, he stared around the stadium, flicked out his whistle, and mounted his broom. His gaze swiveled over to the Top Box, awaiting the signal.

Bagman glanced at Fudge, and the latter nodded. With a deep breath, Bagman screamed the next words to the delight of the crowd.

"LET THE MATCH BEGIN!"

* * *

"WOAH!"

Below, the two Seekers danced together in a death-defying dive in pursuit of the Snitch. Leaning over the safety railing, Harry pressed his Omnioculars and followed the descent with bated breath. And then he saw it–Krum pulled up his broom bare inches from the pitch and spiraled away. Behind him, Lynch collided with the ground with a sickening thud, followed by groans and whistles from the crowd.

"Fool! Krum was feinting him!" Charlie declared.

"Harry, lend me your Omnioculars! I need to see the replay!" Ron exclaimed and yanked the Omnioculars from his grasp.

"He'll be okay," Bill said kindly to Ginny, who was covering her face with her hands. "He just got ploughed. You can see the medics already on way–look!"

Someone jostled into Harry, and he caught himself. Frowning, he drew back from the railing–it was difficult to discern who had shoved him–and sat down in his seat. Conversation soon picked up in the Top Box, as the gathering dispersed and the dignitaries began to discuss topics of varying import.

"Thanks, mate–here you go!" Ron dumped the Omnioculars on Harry's lap. "Going for a quick nip–be right back soon!"

"Ok–hurry up."

"Yeah," Ron replied, glancing back at the board showing the medics attending to Lynch. "Gotta go!"

He hurried away.

* * *

The feeling grew more intense with every second. He _had_ to enter the cubicle! Why was that fellow taking so long?

Raising his fist, Ron banged the doors again.

"Oi! Wait up, you berk!" came the angry response.

"Hurry! I gotta go!" Ron retorted, banging the door again. "Open up!"

His words were promptly swallowed up by the loud din behind him. The men's washroom was full of rowdy men discussing the match, cracking open bottles of liquor, and singing without care.

"Come out!" Ron shouted again, the desperation growing within him. "Otherwise I'll break down this door!"

"Okay! Okay!" The lock slid out of place with a sharp crack, and the furious occupant barreled out, pushing Ron roughly with his shoulder. "Bloody wanker..."

Ron never heard the man's words, for he vaulted himself inside the cubicle, slammed the door, and slid the lock in place. The stench almost made him gag, and he clapped a hand to his nose, looking around feverishly. He dropped to his knees and made for the wall behind the commode.

The glazed tile was cool to touch, and he felt about until his fingertips located a carving. Another wave, this time euphoric, rushed through him and he scrabbled at the plastering, loosening the tile.

If he had been in control of his senses, he would have questioned why he was kneeling and scratching about in a filthy bathroom.

The tile fell out and he hastily wrapped his fingers around it. Light swirled around him, accompanied by a jerk under his navel, and banishing all sensation of the compulsion. He screamed, swinging haphazardly in the inexorable flight to lands unknown.

Moments later his lanky frame slammed on to a concrete floor, knocking out all breath. He groaned, hurt throbbing over his ribs and knees.

A black boot entered his sight. Ron froze, the past few moments rushing up with him. Bottom lip quivering, his gaze lifted...

"Boo!"

He yelled, scrambling up and flinging himself back. Loud laughter filled his ears. The long tattoo ran down from the man's brow, over his right eye, past his nose-ring, and finished at his jaw.

"Someone is a scaredy-cat!" sneered the man. "Let's play a little, shall we?"

With a _swish_, the jagged edge of a machete appeared. The polished metal reflected Ron's frozen visage, and the sharp point glinted menacingly. Ron gulped. His heart drummed against his chest, and his legs felt rubbery, gave way; he had no clue where he was, he didn't want to die–

"Move."

The man swiveled towards the source of the voice, flicked his tongue, revealing a yellow piercing on the reddish muscle, and rose from his haunches.

"Ta! We'll play soon!"

A moment later, a shadow fell over Ron. He looked up, dimly cognizant of the bright lights around.

It was a woman. Brunette. Regal. He swallowed, remembered his wand, and clumsily pulled out the instrument. Next moment, it shot out of his grasp, and Ron's exclamation of dismay filled the room.

Desperation spurred him on–he lunged forward but collided painfully with an invisible wall.

"LET ME OUT! HELP!" he yelled, banging the wall as though it might break unexpectedly. "LET ME OUT!"

The woman regarded Ron's fruitless calls for help calmly. His throat, parched with fear, ceased moving and he sank against the invisible barrier, fighting back the hot tears of despair pricking his eyes.

"Ron Weasley," The woman declared, leaning close to him. Her lips twisted into an expression of excitement. He shuddered, turning his face away as though to ward off her. "Pity–we were hoping for Potter, but you'll do nicely."

Ron shook his head, biting his lip hard. The fear turned into a roaring agony, tearing at his chest. His father was whispering about the previous Wizarding War, and he squeezed his eyes shut, praying that this was all just a bad dream.

"Do it," ordered the woman. "Hurry up!"

A rough hand swiped over his head, and pain seared through his scalp. Squinting through watery eyes, he saw the tattooed man dunk a familiar potion down his throat. In a few minutes, a carbon copy of himself grinned at him.

"How do I look?" asked his doppelgänger, and leered at him. "I'll be borrowing those clothes now."

"No!" Ron exclaimed, instinctively hugging himself. "No, don't...PLEASE!"

Tears dripped down his cheeks. Each sensation of his clothes unfurling themselves from his being was like a physical walloping. He rocked himself, moaning and praying with all his might for this to be a nightmare.

"Be back in a verrrryyyy looooong timeeee!" laughed his doppelgänger. "Try not to piss yourself, eh?"

"Go," ordered the woman. "Remember, come back before the agreed time."

His doppelgänger nodded and clasped the Portkey. Disappeared. The woman turned back to Ron, her eyes running over his semi-naked form dispassionately.

"Let's begin, shall we?" she murmured and poked him with her wand. "Eyes up here. Tell me about Potter. You know, Harry Potter, your friend–stop shaking your stupid head–LOOK AT ME!"

* * *

"Where is Ron?"

Harry lowered his Omnioculars. Glanced at Hermione's worried expression. "He said he was going to the washroom."

"Oh. Ok. He's taking a while though, isn't he?" Hermione gestured at the Irish Chasers. "The match has already resumed. And you know how he is!"

"Yeah," agreed Harry. He looked around musingly. "You think I should go and look for him?"

"Give it a few minutes. Maybe he's already on his way back."

"Sure–wait. Look, Hermione. There he is!" Harry said, spotting Ron's familiar frame and waving.

His friend gestured in acknowledgment and soon slid next to them.

"Bummer–match is already underway," Ron observed mournfully and pressed his Omnioculars to his eyes. "Anything interesting happen? What's the score?"

"90-10" Harry supplied. "You didn't miss much. Play is becoming more dirty, though."

"You were also gone for some time," Hermione noted, and then at Ron's wide grin, exclaimed loudly. "Oh, that's disgusting, Ron!"

"What? I didn't say anything!"

"I–oh–never mind! Stay away from me!"

"Whoa! Hey–be careful! I almost fell!"

Harry ignored their antics and focused on the match. Time seemed to blur for him; his Omnioculars moved incessantly, following the Quaffle, observing the 'tactical fouls' made by the Bulgarians, marveling at the antics of the mascots and the referee, and the resulting argument...

"Damn," a voice moaned, and he looked away from Troy's windup to see Ron with his Omnioculars lowered. "My stomach is acting up again..."

"Again?" asked Harry. Ron was more of a Quidditch fanatic than him, and for him to say that, meant that it was quite serious.

His friend nodded dolefully. "Yeah. Be right back again...hopefully the match won't be over by then."

"OK," Harry said. "Best hurry up then."

Next to him, Hermione eyed the twins skeptically. They turned to her, with identical grins on their faces.

"Why, brother of mine," said one of them

"It appears that the lovely Miss Granger,"

"Suspects us of giving,"

"Ickle Ronniekins something,"

"But we would never dare to break his heart,"

"Or dream of seeing his love–"

"OK, OK!" Hermione exclaimed. "I get it; you didn't do anything!"

A great cheer from the Irish supporters got them peering through their Omniculars once again. The match slowly grew more brutal and intense, with both the sides well and truly heated.

* * *

_"__Crucio!"_

Pain, far more intense than he had ever felt, struck him. He didn't know for how long he screamed, or when he curled up into a fetal position, or when the fire raking every fiber of his body stopped. Only the roughness of the floor, the jerkiness in his limbs and the ache in his vocal cords told him that he was still alive.

"Look at me," intoned the voice, and Ron met her dark-eyed gaze. "What happened in the Chamber of Secrets?"

A small dark-haired boy was looking at him in the slimy pipe.

The woman's lips curved into a smile.

"So he went down...to save your sister..."

As his mind reacted to the spoken statement, the familiar sensation of something very cold latching onto his mind repeated itself. His hands flew to his head again...

And a thousand needles of agony tore through his nerves.

Memories of their second year and Harry played out in front of his mind's eye–snippets of their adventures, their talks, his thoughts, his reactions–

Over and over it went on until the pain dissipated and the flood ceased. All that remained was a dull throbbing in his mind. His red eyes itched, while his cheeks felt damp.

From far-away, his torturers' disembodied voices floated about.

"You're back–"

_Who is back?_

"Not as good as getting it from Potter–"

_Huh? _

"–his immunity–"

_Harry–I need to warn him_

"–only a matter of time–"

_Can't move...so tired..._

"–hurry up and take him back. Don't forget to Obliviate him!"

"No," Ron whispered, ignoring the flare of pain over his tongue. "No..."

"Hello, ginger!" called out the tattooed man, squatting in front of Ron. A smoking potion bubbled in his meaty hand. "Open your mouth!"

Ron tried to move, but it was futile. The man gripped his throat in a chokehold, and forced the contents down his throat.

It burned. Oh, Great Merlin, he was going to die!

"Sweet dreams!"

With those words, his captive's wand jerked forward. Ron raised his hand feebly, and a blinding flash of green light consumed his vision.

The last thing he saw was the fellow, features wild with madness, bearing down on him.

* * *

"MORAN SCORES!"

As one, the Irish spectators rose and cheered, a stark contrast to the fierce three-way battle on the pitch between the Veela, leprechauns, and the Ministry.

Fudge leaned over the railing, groaning audibly. Harry ignored him and focused on the match; saw Quigley direct a Bludger and it struck–

"No!" Ron yelled over the din. "Foul, foul! Blow the whistle, ref! Timeout!"

Harry threw a glance back; his friend was back with his Omnioculars pressed to his eyes, evidently focusing on Krum.

He followed suit, watching the injured Bulgarian seeker, and then gasped. Lynch was hurtling down, in a death-defying dive–

What happened next was pure magic–magic of a different type. That spoke of genius. Though bloodied and distracted, Krum was still able to outmaneuver Lynch and claim the Snitch. This was despite being at a disadvantage–the Irish Seeker had noticed the golden winged ball first. Yet Krum snatched the prize from the jaws of defeat.

Unfortunately, he had merely won the battle. For the Irish still won the war–the final score reading 170-160.

Soon the two teams were in the Top Box, being awarded medals. And when Fudge presented the Quidditch World Cup to the Irish team and Troy and Quigley hoisted it in the air, the ensuing din was deafening.

"This is going to go down as one of the most memorable World Cups ever!" Charlie shouted exuberantly.

"Well fought! Give it up for the Irish team, the winners of the World Cup! And the runner up—the Bulgarian team! Truly a historic final! This is the beautiful game of Quidditch!" Bagman roared.

The applause went on and on until the Bulgarian team walked away, and slowly the Irish team followed. A great horn blast rang out, echoing over and over, signaling the crowd to begin vacating the stadium.

It was a long and slow way down, as the party lingered back, not wanting to get too close to the crowd. Looking at the hordes of men and women chattering and traipsing down invoked feelings of claustrophobia. Finally, they were almost near the entrance, when Fudge's voice suddenly rang out from behind.

"Harry, my boy! A word, if you please!"

Harry spun around to see Fudge beckoning jovially at him from a side entrance that apparently led off to private quarters.

"Come on, come on," Fudge called as Harry hesitated. "Oh, don't worry, Arthur, he'll be escorted back to you."

"We'll wait," Arthur responded.

"Oh no…this might be quite a while."

"Go on," Hermione whispered, nudging Harry.

"Right. Be back in a bit," Harry said, handing off his things to Ron.

"Hurry up, mate, we gotta talk about Krum and his Wronski Feint!"

Smiling, Harry moved over to Fudge. The man draped his arm around Harry's shoulders.

"Ready, Harry?" Fudge asked, and at Harry's nod, beamed. "Well then, come in, come in!"

Taking a deep breath, Harry stepped inside.

He immediately realized that he was in a hall, an opulent one, that looked to have been magically expanded. The décor was tasteful, and distinguished men walked about, sipping crystal goblets and making polite conversation. At his entrance, the conversation frittered away as heads turned towards him. Each of the faces were solemn and intent, as though appraising his worth.

Like a curiosity.

A few faces sprang out to him, but the rest were all unknown. Reagan Gillian was there, as was Sebastian Delacour, and Mr. Crouch.

"Well then, everyone! Meet Harry Potter! Or rather The Boy Who Lived!" Fudge announced, clapping Harry's shoulder.

If he expected the usual frenetic buzz of excitement, Fudge soon grew disappointed. The people offered minimal reactions, with the majority merely indulging in whispers with their companions.

"Well…I say…" Fudge started to bluster, his gaze sweeping around the room, and then at Harry, who simply offered him a blank stare. "This is Harry Potter! The vanquisher of You-Know-Who!"

One of the men stepped forward. He wore black robes embroidered with gold borders, and his grey hair was slicked back, throwing his stern features into prominence. In two long strides, he was in front of Harry and Fudge. Harry nearly flinched; the authority radiated by the man was overwhelming. Yet he stood, meeting his opponent's fierce gaze and after a few moments, the fire in the black eyes softened approvingly.

"Hello, Mr. Potter," began the man. "Pleased to make your acquaintance." He shifted the smoking crystal goblet to his left hand, and Harry caught a glimpse of a glittering amber ring. "I am Abercrombie Finkle."

"Finkle here is the owner of the prestigious Finkle resorts all over the world!" Fudge beamed, as Harry and Finkle shook hands. "France, Greece, America, you name it–there is always a Finkle resort wherever you go!"

"You are too kind, Minister," Finkle said, tipping his goblet towards Fudge.

"Nonsense!" Fudge exclaimed. "You must visit one of the resorts, Harry, if you ever get the chance. The one in Cornwall is particularly stupendous if I do say so myself!"

"Err…" Harry began, a little unsure of what to make of the conversation's direction.

"We would be honored to have you as a guest, Mr. Potter," Finkle intoned.

"Sure…"

"Well, then, come along, Harry! Let's have you meet the others–I'm sure they're all dying to meet you as well!" Fudge said, guiding Harry past Finkle, and towards one of the nearby groups.

"Do enjoy yourself, Mr. Potter," Finkle murmured.

Something about his tone made Harry turn, but then Fudge was introducing him to a new, corpulent wizard sporting a bushy handlebar mustache, and he had to turn back.

During a brief moment of respite, with Fudge occupied with his audience, Harry looked around. He took a moment to marvel at the magnificent tower made of sparkling goblets atop an elegant table in the center of the hall. Liquids, of varying color, cascaded down over the wide rims, swirled inside the transparent moat, and rose back into the topmost goblet in high arches. And if one plucked a goblet from the tower, another instantly appeared in its place.

Soft organ music joined by the gentle croon of the singer, whom he vaguely recognized as Celestina Warbeck, crested over the gathering. To his displeasure, he spotted the familiar frame of Lucius Malfoy–holding court near the band. Their eyes met, and Lucius raised his eyebrows, his lips curving into a faint smirk.

"Let's go, Harry!" Fudge said, clapping Harry's shoulder.

He steered Harry purposefully around, making introductions. It was too obvious that whatever he was doing was for his gains.

Irritation spiked through Harry–he was not a show pony! –but he controlled himself. All of this was new to him, and besides, he had a vague sense that knowing some of those influential people wouldn't hurt him.

Easy to think, hard to practice. Though contact was now much easier.

Besides his knowledge of the magical world was limited and sheltered. Hermione's earlier words about international schools floated to mind. And learning about Azkaban–his step faltered a little–revealed a world outside of Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley, and Knockturn Alley.

Obviously there was a whole wide world waiting out there. Yet how could he explore it if he was unsure of his place in Magical Britain?

He sighed inwardly. Living with the Dursleys was the biggest reason for his awkwardness. The fact that he was famous due to his parents' deaths also rankled. Was it so hard to be acknowledged for what he had done?

The Special Services to Hogwarts. Did it count for anything? It was doubtful if any of these powerful and influential men and women knew of it. But, they were still talking to him.

That had to mean something. What it was, he wasn't sure. If he dared to put it to words, how much did he really have?

Was it enough to help Sirius?

He desperately wanted to run. To run, to leave behind this gathering and ruminate on the thoughts whirling in his mind. The euphoria of the World Cup now felt like a distant memory.

"There you are!" Fudge called out heartily and swung Harry abruptly around.

Steadying himself, Harry spotted two men approaching them. Both held the customary crystal goblet filled with smoking dark liquid, which he now suspected to be alcohol of some sort.

"Hello Minister–it is a pleasure to be here!" said one of them, extending his hand to Fudge, and shaking hands cordially.

"The honor is all mine!" Fudge postured, unable to keep the delight off his face. "I dare say you know who this is?"

The man's calm gaze met Harry's, and Harry immediately recognized the subtle sizing up. He didn't react and instead shook the proffered hand firmly.

"Well met, Harry Potter. I am Alistair Greengrass."

Greengrass–that was vaguely familiar. Harry frowned as something flickered in his mind, but nothing jumped out to him.

"Perhaps you have met my daughter, Daphne. She is in the same year as you are," Greengrass offered.

Then it clicked. A faint imagery of a blonde girl conjured itself in his mind. And she was in–

He felt a jolt of discomfort at that. Thinking about Houses right now felt childish–especially after the recent niceties. Declaring Greengrass as a Slytherin in the real world made even less sense.

It was as though another veil was being ripped off.

"No, sir. I do recall her, but–well, we don't interact that much," Harry said.

"Understandable," Greengrass smiled, and a liveliness lit up his aristocratic features. "It's always a good idea to expand out, though. Which you may have opportunity to do so!"

"Nah, nah, can't have any of that spreading out, Greengrass!" Fudge interjected jovially.

He ignored Harry's curious look and gestured to the taller man next to Greengrass. "Harry, this is Nathaniel Davis–he is the owner of Davis and Co. law firm."

"Hi there," Davis smiled, shaking Harry's hand.

"Law firm?" Harry repeated wonderingly. "You're a lawyer?"

"Fair warning–law is awfully boring in case you're thinking of a career in it!" Davis chuckled.

"Curious, isn't it?" Greengrass grinned, sipping his goblet.

Davis shook his head. "In any case, our law firm handles most of the Wizarding World's cases. There are some other law firms, but we've been around for a long time. There's very little we can't advise with."

"I see," Harry said thoughtfully.

Sirius' haggard face flashed before him. Was it worth mentioning about his godfather to him? But then what if something happened to Sirius?

"Here," Davis reached into his robes and held out a business card. "Just in case–if you ever think you may need a lawyer, do contact us."

"Sure," Harry replied, accepting the card.

To his surprise, the card bore the personal contact details of Davis. Even for his age, he knew that it was a big thing, and he glanced up sharply.

The dark haired man nodded easily.

"No problem, Potter," he said, and then evidently realizing something else, spoke quickly. "Do say hi to Tracey too sometime!"

"Sure," was all Harry could say, before Fudge yanked him away again, nearly knocking him off balance. Turning around to look at the two men, he nodded solemnly.

As Fudge dragged him towards yet another cluster, a vague feeling overtook him. It was as though something significant had occurred–an understanding–something that gave him hope. The strange haziness persisted throughout the whirlwind of repeated social exchanges, with blurred faces, varying grips, and contrasting reactions.

Yet the underlying irritation simmered beneath. Keeping up the façade of polite interest was hard–who cared about the Russian envoy, Sergei Ivanoshovik, and his hobbies? Or Gavin Thorn, owner of the _Wrib_? But he didn't dare to break social decorum, and pushed down the indignation to the dark pit where he housed such emotions.

Like he always did.

Even if every moment spent in the hall–no matter the manner of smiles, the subtle flick of eyes, the pretentious exclamations–reinforced the inescapable truth.

That he was not Harry Potter.

Just the Boy Who Lived.


	2. Defiance

The world was in flames.

Orange tongues, tinged with white and yellow, flickered incessantly against the dark backdrop; once so speckled with stars a few hours back.

Nothing could block out the screams, the resounding cries of despair and fear that seemed to rattle the grey matter. And the smell, there was no escaping the acrid flare of tents and the poison of destruction shooting up his nostrils, as if seeking an escape from a rampaging herd of Erumpets.

Which was an apt way to describe the chaos around. Provoked by a natural sense of perseverance, the crowd ran amok, hampering each other in a crazed quest to save themselves. Now and then, heatwaves surged forth, invoked by dreadful explosions and thunderous bangs, and the madness began anew.

"You lot stick together!" Mr. Weasley's voice boomed close by, jerking Harry out of his trance. "Bill, Charlie, and Percy–we're going to try and help–the rest of you find somewhere safe and stay there until I come and get you!"

"Come on, Arthur!" someone shouted, running past them.

With a final glance at his children, determination lined over his features, Mr. Weasley hurried away.

"Right then," Ron yelled, grabbing hold of Hermione's hand. "Let's go to the woods...might be safer there."

Abruptly, he reeled and nearly stumbled over the crushed grass.

"Ron, are–" Hermione started before Ron caught himself and yanked her forward.

"Move, move!" he yelled, not daring to look back at Harry or Hermione.

Hermione met Harry's gaze, opened her mouth to speak, but a huge explosion drowned out her words; the flames soared high up into the air, as though in a rush to clear the tree caps, and drenched her anxious features in gold light.

"Holy Merlin!" yelled one of the twins. "RUN!"

And not a moment too soon, for panicky people blundered about, convalescing into a rabble, and the group found themselves pushed and pulled in all directions.

"HARRY! RON!" Hermione screamed, clinging on to both of them for dear life.

"OVER HERE!" yelled someone.

Suddenly, the breakthrough happened; one moment, Harry was tugging Hermione's hand with all his might through the crazed crowd, and the next moment he was half stumbling over the bracken.

"Keep going! Just a bit more!" Ron hollered.

The trio reached the edge of the woods and slumped in relief. At the campsite, the skirmish was in full flow, flames crackled everywhere, and dark figures swarmed around, flinging spells. It was difficult to discern friend from foe, and Harry caught a glimpse of an upside down person, evidently under the spell of one of the masked figures.

"Blimey..." Ron gasped, straightening up. "Reckon we got away just in time!"

"Ginny, Fred, and George, we lost them!" Hermione exclaimed, looking anxiously at the silhouettes in the distance. "You think they're okay?"

"They'll be fine," Ron muttered. "C'mon, let's move further away a bit more..."

Together, the trio entered the woods. The lamps were extinguished, and they lit their wands. Every moment, flashes of red, yellow, and green colored the trees around them. As they moved, plenty of people huddled in small groups were milling around the path, all of them staring nervously at the battle back at the campsite.

"I don't see any of them," Hermione said, frowning as she squinted up the path.

"They can't have gone that far," Ron replied, "Let's go over there for a better vantage view," he added, indicating a sloped area some way off.

The trio trudged up the slope and spotted the clearing of trees almost immediately. They took a few steps forward when Harry stopped abruptly.

"Do you hear that...listen!" he said.

Voices floated from the clearing, and one of them was oddly familiar.

"Malfoy," Ron confirmed with no small amount of distaste. "That's him alright."

"Do you think we should leave? It doesn't sound like he's alone," Hermione observed.

Ron shook his head and strode forward.

The four people in the clearing looked around in surprise. Malfoy was there, as expected, and his look of surprise was immediately replaced by a relaxed countenance. Next to him were his Slytherin classmates–Pansy Parkinson and Theodere Nott. The last person was vaguely familiar to Harry, but he couldn't place her name. Their gazes interlocked briefly and dissipated just as swiftly.

"Well, well. Look what the Kneazle dragged in," he drawled. "Potty, Weasel...and my, my..."

"The Mudblood!" Pansy finished for him and laughed.

"Shut up!" Ron yelled.

"But it's true," Malfoy chuckled. "They," he nodded at the direction of the campsite, "are out there for the Muggles. Who is next after them?"

"People like you, Granger," Nott said, sneering unpleasantly at Hermione.

"Hermione is a witch," Harry snapped.

"Oh please, she's just a bushy know-all!" Pansy remarked. "Even Daphne thinks so, don't you?"

The girl in question shrugged noncommittally. There came a thunderous blast and a lingering red hue lit the clearing. All heads turned towards the campsite, and renewed screams broke out, with sounds of trampling motions all around.

"They really do scare easily," Nott commented. "Save for those with Gryffindorish qualities."

"No," Malfoy corrected. "More like Weasel's dad told him to run and hide."

"While he's probably trying to save the Muggles," said Nott, shooting Ron an unpleasant look. "As expected from a Muggle loving fool."

"Ron, no!" Hermione interjected, seizing Ron's arm to restrain him as he raised his wand threateningly.

"And what about your parents?" Harry retorted. "I'm sure they're out there, wearing masks. Cowards!"

The atmosphere grew charged and taut, as Nott drew out his wand, while Pansy dropped back from Malfoy and raised her wand. Malfoy uncrossed his arms and turned to Harry coldly.

"That's so rich coming from you, Potter," he drawled. "Let me think–who was that who fainted in front of the Dementors last year? Oh right, it was you, Potter!"

"Wonder what you heard in front of them," said Nott. "The memory must have been that bad to make you drop dead."

Harry's knuckles whitened around his wand. The urge to curse the smirking Slytherin boys was near overwhelming. His mother's screams, his father's last stand…

"Yeah," agreed Malfoy. "I mean...so weak...so fragile...whoever heard of someone fainting at a memory?"

"Shut up, you cowardly bastard!" Harry yelled. "I'm warning you, Malfoy–"

"Harry, come on!" Hermione said. "Let's go and find the others–"

"Or what, Potter?" returned Malfoy. "Plan to fight us? Apparently, the Dementors must have sucked away your brain too...if you haven't noticed, we outnumber you."

"Gryffindors aren't the brightest lot anyway," Pansy said. "Maybe we could leave a gift for them," she added, jerking her head at the campsite.

"Do stay around, Granger," Daphne spoke up for the first time. "After all, I would mark you down as an exhibitionist–considering how you always try to draw attention to yourself in class."

"Ooh! Me, me, me! Professor, please!" Pansy performed a cruel imitation of Hermione bobbing up and down with her hand raised, to loud laughter from Malfoy and Nott.

"You bloody fucking arseholes!" Ron swore loudly. "_Everte_–"

He never got to finish his spell. For a bang went off close by and a jet of light flew past the trio and at Malfoy and Pansy, who sprang apart and went sprawling.

"What the..." Malfoy began, alarmed. "No way..."

"What was that?!" Pansy screeched nervously.

"Ssh!" hissed Daphne, as Malfoy scrambled to his feet.

Cold air rustled around the trees. The previously charged atmosphere became one of fear as the groups slowly backed away, wands at the ready. And then it began–there was a brief spark of light in the thicket, like a star of doom, and a yellow-tinged spell flew at the group, followed by a barrage of spells.

"Draco! RUN!" roared Nott, turning and following after Daphne.

"C'mon, Hermione!" Ron yanked her elbow and spun her around.

"After them! GO, GO!" Harry shouted, indicating Nott's retreating figure.

The trio raced after him, spell fire flying about indiscriminately. Draco and Pansy raced off together in another direction and soon vanished in the distance.

"ARGH!" screamed Hermione suddenly, stumbling to the ground.

"Hermione!" shouted Ron. He shot a look at where the spell came from and spotted Malfoy grinning maliciously at the edge of the clearing. His wand was out, leaving little doubt about who had fired the Jelly-Legs Jinx.

"That's for daring to hit me last year, Mudblood!" he shouted.

"You backstabbing slime!" bellowed Ron.

"Draco! Come on!" shrieked Pansy.

"Ron! Ron! Say the counter-jinx!" Hermione snapped. "Hurry!"

Ron obeyed, and Hermione sprang up. Chancing a glance over his shoulder as he reached the edge of the clearing, Harry spotted men spilling into the clearing. No masks covered their heads, and their robes looked to be of ill-wear.

"OVER THERE! GET THEM!" yelled one of the assailants, followed by a rallying roar.

The hunt was on. Harry navigated the trees nimbly, heart hammering against his chest. He kept an eye on Daphne's wand that glittered with a prick of light–like a beacon–while traversing the environment and ducking over low hanging branches. Spells whizzed past them, violently dissipating against the vegetation and forcing them to adjust wildly.

"NOTT!" Ron bellowed suddenly. "You slimy snake! I'll get you! _Tarantallegra!_"

"What the hell?" shouted Nott, as the spell whistled wide over his head. "Are you mad?"

"Shut up! _Petrificus Totalus!_"

"Ron, NO!" shouted Harry. "Cut it out!"

"The hell? They'll backstab us again!"

"Come to your senses!"

"Whatever Draco did, I didn't do it," Nott shouted.

"We should do what they did to us!"

"Don't, Ron. Else we're no better than them!"

"We're right here, you know!"

"Then why the blazes are you running with us, eh, Nott?!" Ron jeered.

"Shut up!" Nott snapped and expelled a ragged pant. "Shit!"

"They aren't wearing masks!" yelled Harry, ducking to avoid a purple beam.

"What?"

"NO MASKS!"

"Then who are they?"

"Does it matter? RUN!" Hermione screamed.

"Ahhhhh!"

Daphne yelled as she suddenly tripped over a loose rock, and went down. Her wand flew out of her hand and disappeared in the darkness. Nott didn't even pause as he scarpered past his classmate, and soon vanished out of sight in the woods.

"GET UP!"

Harry stooped, snatched Daphne's hand, and yanked her up. She obeyed, half stumbling as she caught her balance.

"You okay?" he asked urgently. "Hurt anywhere?"

"No!" said Daphne, shaking her head, then remembered. "My wand!"

"HARRY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Ron yelled frantically. "COME ON!"

Both Harry and Daphne raced after Ron and Hermione; the latter now led the party. How long they ran for, Harry had no idea. He kept running, riding on adrenaline and his breath came out in hot gasps in the cold air. At some point, the spell fire ceased completely, but the party kept moving. Finally, they crashed into another clearing, this time bathed in silvery moonlight.

"Stop, stop, stop!" Ron burst out, halting and sinking to his knees. "Let's...stop...here...for...a...bit."

The others offered no complaint. Soon loud and grateful pants filled the air as they sought to catch their breath and rest their burning muscles.

"Blimey...reckon we covered a bit of distance," Ron observed between great gasps, then rose up, and stalked over to Harry, who too got up.

"The hell, Harry? What were you thinking? You both could have been captured!" Ron said loudly, glaring at Daphne and then at Harry.

"No way I could leave her!"

"Mate..." Ron ran his hand over his face. "She's one of Malfoy's lot, plus a snake! Double-crossing is in their nature! You saw how Malfoy and Nott backstabbed us!"

"She too was backstabbed, if you didn't notice!"

"Do you even hear what you're saying? You're actually defending her?"

"Ron, there's no way I could have abandoned her. It's not me."

"It was the right thing to do," Hermione interjected, frowning.

"Was it now? What if something happens in the future and we're betrayed?" He shot a nasty look at Daphne.

"For what it's worth, Weasley, I don't plan on it. Nor do I have a wand." Daphne returned icily.

"We'll see, won't we?" Ron said and pointed his wand at her. "Just to be clear, the slightest hint and I'll make sure you come with us."

"Cut it out, Ron," Harry said, pushing Ron's wand aside. "Drop it."

"Whatever," Ron said, glaring at Harry. "Something bad will happen with her around. Reckon you'll regret it."

He dropped to the ground, all while glowering at Greengrass. Harry looked uneasily back round; they'd been rather loud, and he strained his ears.

Silence greeted him.

For the moment, they looked to be out of danger. Maybe the riot was also over. Or was it?

"Do you think we should keep moving?" he asked, looking at the others.

"We should," Daphne agreed, straightening up. "A little more distance won't hurt."

Ron made a sound of displeasure. "Now you're listening to her? Snap out of it–we've escaped! Just gotta wait a bit–"

"Of course, you'd say that, wouldn't you, Weasley? Out of all of us, you're the one who has the least value if we're captured," said Daphne bitingly.

"Why don't you just, I don't know, shut up?!"

"Because I value my safety, Weasley," said Daphne. "I also thought you'd be looking out for Granger–your best friend–but looks like I was wrong."

"Ah, shut it," replied Ron irritably. "Just a few mins, OK?"

Daphne shook her head and crossed her arms. She met Harry's gaze, and he exhaled.

"A few more minutes," he said and walked over to Hermione.

"Really, Potter?" Daphne's expression screwed up into one of disbelief. "Of course, silly me, what was I thinking? Figures...you'd tussle with danger until it bites you."

Ignoring her acerbic remark, he knelt next to Hermione.

"Do you know any way we can–I don't know–escape, or inform somebody? I doubt Mr. Weasley will be able to find us now…"

Hermione bit her lip and shook her head. "Something I've also been wondering about. But no, nothing comes to mind. We can't risk a signal, and we don't know whether we've–"

"Potter!" interrupted Daphne acidly. "Unless you know how to Apparate, we'll have all the time to discuss it once we're somewhere else safer!"

"Right," Harry said, getting up. "Let's go, guys." Crossed over to Ron. "Come, Ron."

Ron looked at him strangely but extended his hand and Harry tugged him up. And then the sound of a soft _crack_ caused him to jerk around and snap his wand up to his left.

"Did you hear that?" Hermione whispered.

Daphne nodded and gestured behind her. Harry mirrored her initial action and started to step back, his gaze fixed at the vast, pitch-black overgrowth. The fine hairs on his neck rose and he fought down the urge to turn around and break into a sprint.

"Let's go," Daphne murmured, and he glanced back at her anxious features, flanked by Hermione's pale face. "Yeah, let's–"

The glow of an orange jet entered his peripheral vision and he barely had time to acknowledge the spell before dropping to the grass.

"HARRY, WATCH OUT!" Ron yelled a breath later, only for his words to be drowned out in the resulting explosion.

"RUN!" Harry yelled, scrambling to his feet.

From the trees, dark figures milled out. Their savage roars filled the air as they fired spells indiscriminately.

"Like we will let you!" yelled one of the figures, then broke out into a loud, wild laugh. "Come on, scurry about, you rats!"

Harry ducked yet another spell, shifted his trajectory to avoid an explosion, and loosened a series of Cutters. One of them struck home and the man's scream of agony momentarily rose over the frantic cacophony. Another strode by roughly, and fired off a series of multicolored curses and jinxes. Harry ducked, surrendering himself to his Quidditch training. He dodged, ducked, and rolled, yet couldn't return fire–the pressure was too high. It was only a matter of time until a spell found its mark.

"POTTER! HARRY!"

Somehow, despite the ruckus, Daphne's voice reached his ears. He looked around wildly and spotted her waving urgently at him.

He made for her.

She suddenly pointed behind him. "DUCK!"

He obeyed, dropping flat to the soil, and watched her sidestep the yellow curse. He deftly rolled, raised his sights, and fired off a couple of curses. The outline of a figure slumped and he scrambled to his feet in the momentary lull that followed. A moment too late, he noticed a streaking curse just out of the corner of his vision and he jerked back.

The spell clipped his neck, and he clutched his injured neck with a cry. A bruise started to form, tender under his touch, and a stark indicator of just how overmatched they were, with little chance to escape.

By then a group caught up with him, and he turned to meet them despairingly. There were four of them, facing him in loose formation, and clad in dark colors. None of them wore masks, and their scruffy features bore malicious joy.

"What's wrong, boy? Can't fight back?" yelled one of the attackers to loud laughter.

Harry risked a glance sideways, and a spark of relief coursed through him–Ron and Hermione were still up and fighting–but they were up against three others, and the skirmish did not seem to be going well. Ron was half paralyzed from waist down, spells clipping him painfully, while Hermione was straining under the effort of protecting herself and counterattacking.

It was truly a dismal state of events.

But then he had never been one to back down in the face of overwhelming odds. Despite the fear, the rising panic threatening to overtake him, he stood as strong as he could, glaring at his laughing foes.

"Come on, boy," mocked one of the attackers, spreading out his hands. "Try us!"

"_Flipendo!_ _Diffendo!"_

"Too weak, boy!" sneered the nearest attacker, deflecting the spells. "Come on, boy, put some effort into this!"

_"__Expelliarmus!"_

"Pfttt! What was that attempt?!" laughed his target, flicking his wand.

The scarlet beam dissipated into a wispy shield. Gritting his teeth, Harry raised his wand once again–but the action did not dissuade the attackers, who started closing the distance between them, completely sure of their victory.

Harry loosened a few more spells, which were summarily dismissed. Frustration and fear boiled over, and he yelled a final spell, his vocal cords straining and arm swinging wildly.

_"__BOMBARDA!"_

The area between the attackers exploded powerfully, spewing clumps of earth everywhere. As his foes reeled in shock, Harry trained his sights at the nearest foe.

"_Petrificus Totalus! Flipendo!_"

The first man stiffened, while his nearby partner hurtled back, immediately crashing into his comrade at the rear. From the terrible cries of agony, it sounded as though a couple of bones had been broken. On reflex, Harry pressed his advantage, fired off another Full Body-Bind Curse, and saw the thrown man freeze in mid-rise. His wand arm was a blur, fueled by adrenaline and hope as he picked out his final target. The attacker snarled, loosened a nasty looking bluish spell–

"_Locomotor Mortis! Furnunculus!"_ Harry yelled, allowing the spell to slip over his shoulder.

His opponent's last-ditch attempt went sky-high as he ate mud. Not sparing another glance at his defeated victims, Harry rushed towards the nearby clash. He vaguely registered his name being called out but paid the voice no heed.

"_Expe_-aarghhhh!"

Hermione's scream rang out as a spell struck her legs; she swayed dangerously, unable to maintain her balance, and then slumped to the ground, her eyes connecting with his in horror.

"NO! HERMIONE!" Harry roared, terror and anger spiking uncontrollably. In an instinctive thrust, he released his magic without restrain, hurling his fear and desire to get the tormentors away from his friends. Unbidden, the word broke from his lips. "_INCENDIO!"_

Large jets of flames burst from his wand. The attackers registered his arrival and turned, but it was too late; the fire engulfed them, and exploded with a blinding flash, accompanied by their piercing throes of agony. The skirmish broke as the burning fighters meandered around, thrashing violently, and the smell of charred flesh started to permeate the air.

The smell was as bad as the scene before him, and he fought the urge to vomit. He looked away–

"Potter! Don't stand there!"

Daphne's voice shattered Harry's shock, and he shook his head once, then hurried over to Ron and Hermione, who both stared at him, wide-eyed.

"_Finite Incantatem!_" he said, pointing his wand at Hermione, who rose up, wincing as she did.

"Blimey, Harry," Ron murmured disbelievingly. "What was _that_?"

"Can you stand?" Harry cut him off, noting the scratches and bruises all over Ron's pale face and limbs.

"Yeah," Ron replied, extending his arm, and allowing Harry to pull him up. "C'mon, let's get out of here!"

"Not going to happen, lad," came a new voice, and Hermione gasped.

Harry spun around and his heart sank. The final vanguard had entered the fray, and again there were four of them–but despite their languid postures, he wanted nothing more than to run away. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably, and he felt the cold presence of suffocating power and fury settle on the air around them.

"Shit..." Ron whispered behind him.

"You've had your fun, but this ends here now," said one of the individuals; he was a thin, scrawny male with a pockmarked face and a bandana. "So bold–I wonder what will be the price? How will she sound?" he added, leering at Hermione, who shuddered. "Mmmm..."

Instinctively, Harry and Ron moved in front of Hermione and raised their wands.

The man laughed.

"Ooh, already protecting the girlie? What a waste..." he exclaimed and with extreme deliberation, he raised his wand and ran his tongue along its length.

"That's...that's...sick," Ron muttered, his expression screwing up in disgust.

"_Expelliarmus_!" Harry yelled suddenly.

For faster than expected, the pockmarked man attacked. His yellow spell clashed against Harry's spell, and inexplicably, his hand tingled. The spells bounced off each other, and the yellow spell dissipated into liquid, eating away the blades of grass in acidic fury.

The pockmarked man snarled, and his wand moved in a blur of movement. Like a barrage of silver arrows, the spells bore down on the trio with unerring accuracy.

"Duck! Move!" Ron yelled from behind him.

Harry obeyed, flung his body aside, but felt a spell hammer into him, and bone-chilling fatigue from waist down rushed through him. He slammed against the ground, tried to rise despite his uncooperative limbs–

"_Locomotor Mortis! Miblewimble!_" Hermione shouted nearby.

Rolling around, he saw their foe easily dodge or brush away her desperation with ease. No matter what she did, her spells simply wouldn't land.

_Need to get up. Get up, Potter. This isn't a game!_

"You all are kids! Lucky to be sure, but just kids!" he laughed exhilaratingly. "Oh, I'm so going to enjoy you, girlie!"

That was the trigger. Why had he simply held back for so long? Anger was a good antidote. He focused on the impotency of the moment, the frustration of his helplessness, the injustice heaped on him by a thousand voices.

One breath. Two breaths. Three breaths.

_"__BOMBARDA!"_

A defiant prayer of hope and rage.

Before him, the world once again blotted itself out in a storm of brown dirt. The vanguard disappeared from sight, and at the same moment, he found himself flying through the air as though someone had uppercut him hard. He felt himself descend, the whistling wind a noisy rapture in his ears, then landed hard on his shoulder and crumpled to the ground.

A second later, dull pain flooded his entire frame. It hurt to breathe, and he blinked. The night sky swam in and out of focus. Someone was calling his name, but he couldn't place the voice.

"Potter! Come on!"

A vaguely familiar face with blonde hair spilling over her smeared cheeks appeared in front of him. He felt himself tugged up to his feet, and another hand, of cool touch, clasped his bruised hand.

"Greengrass?" he muttered.

"Come on, mate, let's get moving!" Ron's face now blurred in front of him.

"Ron...Ron? My wand…?"

"Here." Daphne's voice again. She thrust the familiar wooden instrument into his free hand, and he gripped it. "Thanks…"

"Later, Potter. Let's go!" she said, and led him away.

Smoke stung his eyes. He turned, saw a thick wave of smoke billow behind them. A welcome curtain. Perhaps there was a chance...

"Go, go, go!" whispered Hermione.

"Two can play this game! _BOMBARDA MAXIMUS!_"

Instinctively, Harry threw up his hand as once again the earth blew up ahead of them, spraying dirt and mud. His shaky legs shook under the slight tremors and a stricken look came over his face. Before them, a crescent schism yawned–carved out between them and the edge of the clearing.

"No..." moaned Daphne, gripping his hand tightly.

Desperation returned in full force, and they all glanced wildly behind. From the dwindling smoke, six figures moved towards them–apparently some of the fallen had been restored to fighting condition. The pockmarked man stood back, wand raised in mocking victory.

They never stood a chance in the first place.

"JUMP!" Ron drew back and made to leap over the gap.

"NO!"

The two shouts hung in the air, and suddenly thick ropes spun around his torso. A yank and he sprawled unceremoniously on the dirt, completely trussed up.

Whatever sound Ron might have made was quickly silenced by the appearance of one the attackers near his head. He gulped and terror filled his eyes as the man's evil grin bore down on him. The attacker kicked out and Ron grunted in pain.

"Nice sound," The man dropped down and slapped Rom mockingly. "Come on, make some noise!"

"Stop it!" cried out Hermione, struggling with her captor.

"Shut up!"

"No!"

She froze. The pockmarked man now held a strand of frizzy hair and his dirty finger ran over her cheek.

"Play nice now, girlie," he sneered. Pressed a finger on her lips. "Softy, softy!"

"Leave her alone!" Harry snarled, straining against his bindings.

"Don't, Pot–" Daphne began.

Agony flared in his solar plexus, and he doubled over. His attacker laughed, cocking his fist again, and yanked his hair back.

Before him loomed a huge man with a shaven head. Pain exploded on his cheek, and with a soft thump, he crumpled to the dirt.

He gathered all his defiance, and rose ungainly, glaring at the attacker. The ends of the man's orange beard quivered in the light breeze as he peered at him. Raising his wand, he traced the vein on Harry's exposed neck, savoring the boy's flinch.

"Well, well, who have we got here?" The wand tip flicked Harry's fringe aside. "Ahhh...yes…the Boy Who Lived..."

"No way!" exclaimed the pockmarked man, striding over to Harry. His captor pulled him up and twisted his arm behind his back in a hammerlock. "By Morgana's tits, it's really the Boy Who Lived! Harry Potter!"

Around them, the group whistled and cheered. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry spotted Ron attempt to struggle, and his captor struck him solidly in the ribs.

"What to do with them?" shouted the pockmarked man, turning his back on the captives. "What do we do with the Boy Who Lived?"

More laughter and mocking words. The leader turned and eyed Harry maliciously.

"To the top bidder!" he yelled, to roars of approval. "Take them aw–"

That was the last thing he ever managed to pronounce. A jet flashed out, and cleanly decapitated the man's head in a spray of blood.

Hermione screamed. Followed by a thunderous round of explosions, yells, and howls of the departed, as new spell fire flew, cutting down the men.

Seizing the moment, Harry backheeled his captor's shin and drove his elbow in the man's stomach. As the man reeled, with a swift movement borne out of his run-ins with Dudley's gang, Harry wrenched the wand away and fired off a Full Body-Bind Curse. The man fell to the ground, as stiff as a statue, and Harry's wand rolled out of his pocket.

"POTTER!"

He snatched up his wand, scrambled over to Daphne, and aimed it at her bindings.

"Hurry!" she urged.

_"__Diffendo!_"

Freed, she rose and set off away from the fray. He followed, shooting a quick but futile glance for Ron and Hermione, when a strong force of instinct trembled within him.

"DUCK!" he yelled, leaping and pulling Daphne down with him.

"Wha–" she began, then froze as the spell buzzed inches over them and hit the tree with a loud blast. Flames erupted, bathing the overgrowth in orange light that was more eerie than welcoming. "Oh my..."

"Come on," urged Harry, releasing her.

They scrambled up and looked back, but their assailant was nowhere to be spotted; behind, thick smog drifted everywhere, hiding the chaos from sight.

"This way!" Daphne said, heading off away from the burning tree.

There was a small _pop_ then, and before them, a dark-clad figure appeared. He screeched to a halt, his grip tightening over Daphne's hand.

"Finally found you, Potter."

A female voice.

_Screw this!_

"_Expelliarmus!_ _Petrifi_–"

He gasped. In dismay. At the graceful arc of his wand soaring through the air. Daphne screamed and he grimaced at the lash of invisible ropes around his chest.

"Enjoy your rest, Potter."

Darkness consumed him.


	3. Flight

A _pop_ sounded from somewhere far away. Acute. Jarring.

Harry twitched. Eyelids opened blearily, reminiscent of rust-covered shutters. The world swam into focus–a black crisscrossed floor, unfamiliar–

Memories jolted through his nerves, banishing the grogginess. His pulse quickened and he started to rise, only to squirm futilely. Thick ropes, far more apt for sailing, were coiled around him. Cold manacles, affixed on the wooden arms of the chair, locked his wrists in place. One of his arms was bare; the sleeve torn away.

Clenching his jaw, Harry exhaled. A dull burn flickered inside his injured right shoulder, the slam still fresh in his memory. He shifted in an attempt to examine the joint, and as he moved, something rolled against his other shoulder. Tilting his neck, he recognized familiar hair.

"Greengrass?" he murmured, alarm exploding in the pits of his stomach, and when she did not respond, raised his voice a little louder. "Hey, Greengrass!"

Her head lolled uncomfortably against him. The sinking feeling grew more profound–what if she was dead or injured? Or if something worst had happened–

"Greengrass! Wake up!" he repeated, nudging her ungainly.

Mirth, loud and grating, crashed against his eardrums. He snapped his gaze around, heart pounding–

Standing some distance away was a gathering of several people. All of them exuded menace and the few who didn't have cowls pulled up, bore hostile expressions. Some were seated around a peeling white table. In the center stood a brass colored radio, its antennae pulled to maximum length. Close by was another device, smaller and of similar build, but instead of an antenna, a large, prominent rune covered its trunk.

Apparently sensing his interest, one of the figures–a hefty blond fellow with a stubble–broke from the group, crossed over to the table, and slipped the smaller device inside his robes. Feeling like he'd seen something that he shouldn't have, Harry allowed his gaze to wander past the group's shoulders, and over the spacious surroundings–which resembled the innards of a warehouse. More foes were present, strategically located at positions that offered a visual or height advantage.

Someone approached him and he looked up. Before him was a man, powerfully built and bare-chested, save for the leather belt slung over his left shoulder. His tattooed face leaned closer, and Harry shrank back at the odor of drink coloring the man's breath.

"Feh!" exclaimed the man drawing back disgustedly. "This is the Boy Who Lived? I wager I could snap him into two easy-peasy!"

The last few words were aimed at the initial group. Heads turned, watching a figure step forward.

"Don't push it. Now get going already."

A woman. Her voice sounded hoarse and grated on his nerves. Even without her high-heeled boots, she was taller than average and the strands of her brown hair, tied back in a ponytail, spilled past a pointed chin.

Behind her, the enormous blond Disapparated. A _pop_ followed and the stink of brew mercifully vanished.

There was a faint moan, followed by Daphne stirring against him.

"Greengrass?" Harry said, craning his neck back again.

"Where–" she coughed, her voice thick with disorientation, "–am I? What is going–the hell?"

"Hey–" he returned, as the vibrations of her futile struggle rippled over his back. "Calm down…we'll figure–"

Abruptly she froze. Next moment, the woman bore down on him. A soft creak came as the chair shifted under the weight of her hands on its arms.

"Hello Harry Potter," said the woman, her face inches away from his. "Remember me?"

"Who are you?" returned Harry, trying not to let the uncomfortable closeness affect him.

Come to think of it, she had disarmed him nonverbally. Something felt off about her…was it the malice, raw and restrained, leaking off her? Or her youthful features, contrasting with her imperious mien? Still it mattered it little; all he wanted right now was to put himself as far as possible away from her.

"My name?" said the woman. "It's not important. Strange things happen around you."

Her dark eyes roved over him, scrutinizing every pore of his body. Before her penetrating examination, he felt exposed–not unlike how Dumbledore sometimes looked at him.

_Will he come to save me?_

He banished the childish plea immediately, then blinked. The woman's finger hovered, seemingly to trace his scar; he tensed, but then she desisted and drew away.

Relief sparked through his chest at the suspension of contact, then his chest tightened at the sight of his wand in her grip.

"Nice wand," she observed, running her fingers over its length. "What is its core?"

He made no reply, rather stared back at her defiantly.

"It'll hurt less if you tell me."

Again silence.

"Come on, Potter?" she coaxed. "No? You won't say?"

He shook his head and her shoulders rippled into a shrug of indifference.

"This is on you then," she remarked and casually loosened a faint bolt of magic in a shower of yellow sparks. The spell whizzed past him and struck Daphne, who yelped painfully.

"Stop! Don't hurt her!" exclaimed Harry.

"What have I done? Oh, no, no, Potter. This is your doing."

"What?"

"Think about it, little boy."

"Don't," Daphne gritted out. "She's just manipulating you."

He licked his lips and stared at the pitiless eyes before him. He wasn't naïve enough to plead for Daphne; there wasn't any chance they were going to let her walk away. It might have been a little easier had it been him alone. Perhaps he could bluff a bit…

"Why are you interested in my wand?" he probed. "It's just a…wand that belongs to…me?"

"Drop the games. You aren't smart enough to wrangle with me. And there are ways to make you speak even if you're unwilling…would you like me to demonstrate?"

"No, no, no," he said quickly, shaking his head.

The woman regarded him. A wicked smile crept over her lips. His wand rose and halted before his nose, and his eyes went cross-eyed.

"You are aware of the bond between a wand and its master, Potter?" said the woman, and without waiting for a reply, continued, "Well, it is said that the _wand_ chooses its master. How, it is a matter for old farts to waste time on. But–the idea that there is a bond is of great interest…to me…and nothing delights me more to turn the wand on the _master_–_Crucio!_"

"No!" yelled Daphne as a wave of pain washed over him.

It dissipated as quickly as it arrived. He looked up–the woman's gaze was locked on his wand, frowning.

"Potter? Harry? Say something!" called out Daphne frantically.

"Yeah–fine!" he said, breathing heavily. Even for a brief second, the pain had been intense. He repressed a shudder to think about what might have happened, had the curse been held for longer.

The woman's gaze fell on him and she circled his wand; his muscles tensed, but instead of a spell, a couple of digits appeared nearby.

"See this?" said the woman, indicating her creation. "A half an hour to talk. Try not to waste time deliberately."

"What happens after?"

She smiled. "Wait and see."

"So basically you'll still torture me if I talk and if I don't."

"No. First her, then you. But if you co-operate, I might–mind you–_might_ let her go."

"You…you're lying," he said.

"That's for you to believe or not," she replied and shook his wand. "Now say?"

He hesitated, eyes flicking from his wand to the countdown. No one apart from him and Mr. Ollivander knew of the strange brother bond. He didn't know how the information would benefit anyone but he was sure that it definitely wouldn't be in his favor. And telling her opened up additional risks–what if they were involved with Voldemort? Even if he didn't have any proof, it wasn't a gamble he was willing to take.

"Well? Time is running out," said the woman warningly.

With a start, he realized that she no longer brandished his wand, but instead held it in her free hand.

"No, wait! Wait. Holly and…" said Harry. In a brilliant flash of realization, he remembered Ron's new wand. "Unicorn tail-hair! Holly and unicorn tail-hair."

For a moment, it appeared his bluff worked; the woman's brows creased and her eyes darted between his wand and him.

"Liar," she pronounced, glaring at him and backhanded him hard. "You filthy liar!"

He ignored his stinging cheek and returned her glare. "It's true!"

Her jaw twitched and for a moment, he feared she would do something reckless. Then her own wand lifted, seemingly poised to strike–

"Tell me where is Sirius Black," she ordered, her gaze flinty.

Behind him, Daphne shifted. He hardly noticed though, a cold sweat was breaking out and anxiety gripped him. If something happened to Sirius…

_No!_

"I don't," he said, fighting to keep his voice even, "know."

"Potter…" warned the woman.

"I don't know where he is! How will I know?"

"You are testing my patience! You know where he is! Tell me now!"

"How do I convince you that I don't know where the betrayer of my parents is!?"

"Enough. Don't know, or won't tell?"

"Don't know."

"Potter," the woman drew close to him so that their eyes were level. "Do you know that I'm related to him?"

"That doesn't mean anything," cut in Daphne as Harry struggled to process the new information. "The Blacks are related to a lot of families."

"You shut up!" the woman snapped. To Harry, she continued, "Potter, I need to talk to him. I need to find him."

"Funny, so does everyone else. The Ministry for instance," Harry responded.

"Why bother with this nonsense?"

With a grim expression, the woman aimed her wand at the lightning scar. His eyes connected with hers despite himself, saw her lips form the letters of her spell–

"_Leg_–"

BOOM!

Heads flew towards the entrance, as the doors burst open in a spray of smoke, wood, and splinters. There, standing in the doorway was Albus Dumbledore, looking completely unaffected by the settling dust. Behind him were Professor McGonagall and Snape.

Harry felt a powerful flood of relief, help was here, they were _saved_! His gaze latched on to Dumbledore's, and inexplicably for a moment, the Headmaster seemed to sag.

But next moment he was sure he'd imagined it; the group around the table sprang to their feet, and Dumbledore moved faster, faster than ever possible to meet their fury. With the fluidity of a serpent striking, the woman whirled and sent the table hurtling at the rescuers–

"INTRUDERS! ATTACK!"

In mid-flight the table changed direction, barreling towards the now attacking group. The men drew back in shock, swearing loudly, and spells ripped through the wood; yet it still came, smashing against their ribs and kneecaps, and knocking them off their feet. Yells of agony rent the air, drowned out by the fierce cries of Snape and McGonagall entering the fracas.

Soon smoke and dust intermingled drifted about, polluting lungs and visions. Somewhere above Harry, someone screamed in mortal terror and the sound of a sickening crunch rose over the din. The fog cleared momentarily and he glimpsed Dumbledore striding towards them.

_"__Protego Totalum!_" cried out the woman.

A blue cocoon appeared around the group. The battle shimmered and flickered hazily out of focus–

"Up!" ordered the woman, rounding on Harry.

She released him from his bindings, yanked him up with a flick of her wand. Her nails dug into his bicep; he firmed his feet, unwilling to co-operate. The woman spun, trying to Apparate, and frustration came over her features.

"CAN'T APPARATE!" came a shout a moment later.

Next moment, blinding light–capable of burning retinas–splashed about indiscriminately. Harry turned away, squeezing his eyes shut in pain, heard a crashing wave of explosions break out, drowning out the thud of falling bodies.

"KILL THEM ALL!" shrieked the woman.

He blinked, watched her wand work. Greengrass appeared with a small yelp next to him; before he could even react, cold handcuffs snapped over his wrists, and judging from Greengrass' exclamation, the same thing occurred to her. Once again, the woman whirled her wand and a heavy silver chain appeared, latching itself to their cuffs and limiting their movements.

"Good," murmured the woman. "And now for the final touch…"

She Transfigured the chairs into a bench. Flicked her wand, sending them sprawling on it, and facing the battle. Before them flashes of green flew about, followed by cracking noises and renewed flurries of dust. Dumbledore was still approaching them, his vibrant robes standing out in the haze…he paused, took aim–

"Activate! _Across Time_!"

In her hand, the ivory crane statue glowed. Dread rushed through Harry–if she managed to activate it–

No sooner than the thought materialized, a scarlet spell struck the shield with a resounding _whump_, flooded over its curve, bathing the occupants inside in an eerie bloody glow, then broke though as the shield dropped. The woman shifted her arm, preparing to avoid the spell, but miraculously, the missile homed on the statue, as though Dumbledore was directing it with invisible force.

"Dammit!" cursed the woman as the debris clattered to the ground. "_Port–_ahh!"

She dropped to her knee; the following screamer whizzed past her head. She scrambled up, struck the bench and began her spell anew…

_"__Port_–"

Next moment she sprang forward and her arm crushed around Harry's neck. Underneath the bench clattered to a halt. He wheezed, unable to breath, and the pressure subsided. Followed by the unpleasant jab of a wand-tip against his neck.

"STOP! Or he dies!"

Before them, Dumbledore paused. Snape and McGonagall too ceased, though Harry could feel their aims at the woman. The Headmaster, for his part, looked the same as ever–unflappable and poised.

"Of course," Dumbledore agreed, lowering his wand. "But you do me a disservice." At her incredulous expression, he continued. "You see; I do not recognize you. Who are you?"

She smirked. "Names are power. Don't you agree, you the great Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore?

A tiny smile played over Dumbledore's face. "Of course. I'm afraid that you must return Mr. Potter and Miss Greengrass to me."

"Perhaps I need to make this clearer," returned the woman and gestured with her fingers.

Before Harry, a sharp dagger materialized in mid-air. Next to him, Daphne recoiled and whimpered as the jagged edge pressed against her thin neck.

"Careful, Greengrass," said the woman, her breath brushing over Harry's ear. She straightened. "The slightest movement and they both die. Who knows? Maybe you can save him. Or her. Either way, one will die."

Beneath them, the bench rattled–again pulling them away from safety. A mad impulse to leap away rose; he ruthlessly clamped it down–no way did he want Daphne's blood on his hands.

"Perhaps," replied Dumbledore. "I must insist, though. You are not a murderer…I see it in you. Is someone, perchance, influencing you to do this?"

Nearby the countdown blinked to 19.

"I–" began the woman, then paused. Soon her scornful laughter filled the vicinity. "Old man! Did you think that your pathetic Legilimency attempt could ever work on me?"

"Impressive," replied Dumbledore. "A faint touch; yet you sensed it. How curious…it reminds me–"

"Your attempts to glean information are not appreciated, fool!"

"Allow an old man his moment, if you will," returned Dumbledore, smiling. "Now where was I? Ah yes, your skill, belonging to one so young as you, reminds me of another equally precocious one, a long time back. Decades ago, to be fair."

The woman made no reply, instead staring determinedly at Dumbledore.

"Are you working with Lord Voldemort?"

For the first time, silence fell completely over the warehouse. The air seemed to still, and each eye turned towards the woman.

"You are completely senile, aren't you?" returned the woman heatedly. "One cannot work with someone who is long dead!"

"On the contrary," Dumbledore shifted slightly. "Come now, will you not return the children and let us part in peace?"

"You know my answer," said the woman, and suddenly jerked her palm out, sending a grey beam at Snape, who was taking aim from her left side. In the same movement, she loosened a darkish spell with a white trail at Dumbledore, and finished with a wide circle, calling a shield to life again.

Dumbledore, however, was already sidestepping, his wand tip glowing with power. His first spells whistled past Harry, shredded the shield, and forced the woman to her knees again. Free of the cruel wand tip, Harry attempted to turn, but a sticky glue-like sensation over his back prevented him from further movement. His frustrated gaze fell on Daphne, and her eyeballs moved sideways, beseeching him not to do anything rash.

The countdown shivered down to 18.

Wires wrapped around him. He reacted, saw them fly away in a flaming coil towards McGonagall. Between him and Daphne, the woman's wand arced high, ripping chunks of concrete to meet Snape and Dumbledore's flurries. Dust and sharp edges flew everywhere, drawing scratches and eliciting hacking coughs.

_Daphne!_

He spun towards her, dreading what was to come.

The dagger was gone. It dropped near Dumbledore's feet, followed by a loud ripping noise and he felt himself rise in the air. Dumbledore stared up at him, hesitant–and next moment his knees buckled as he met the concrete floor. Before he could collapse, a body pressed roughly against him, pinning his arms with surprising strength–

"_PROTEGO!_"

Several spells splashed against the bubble a mite too late. Followed by two streams of pure magical energy that flared out brilliantly against the contact points. The physical pressure receded a little as the woman turned away.

In her moment of inattention, both master and pupil pounced.

Harry dropped to his knees. In the same instant, Dumbledore hurled a gust of energy that struck the barrier with a loud, resounding gong. The woman reeled, releasing him and her free hand flew to her ear.

Despite the terrible ringing in his ears and the weight of the heavy handcuffs, Harry spun around, swiped at his wand poking out from the woman's pocket; it clattered to the ground and rolled away. Hope flared in his heart–maybe there was a chance! He lunged for it–

"Stay away!" yelled the woman, recovering faster than he'd predicted.

Once again she called up the concrete; it rose in the form of a wall with a loud grinding noise, momentarily blocking the rescuers from sight. Before he could snatch up his wand, she kicked out with her high-heeled boot, triggering his reflex, and in the brief space created, fired off a point-blank spell at him. The weight over his wrists spiked and he crashed to the ground, back bent awkwardly, and immobile. Behind, the chain scraped loudly over the wooden bench, briefly drowning out the noise of battle.

The woman yelped as one of Snape's spells slashed her shoulder. Her hand flew up, assessing the damage, and fury danced over her face. The tip of her wand glowed with orange light, then a brief hiss reached Harry's ears. At the same time the woman drew back, discarding her ace, swung her arm and violently redirected a beam through the rafters. Blue light from the crisscross of the barrages threw her desperation into focus that contrasted sharply with her deft footwork.

It was soon going to end. He could feel it. As his back rested against the bench, silver wires–almost invisible in the pace of battle–scythed through the air.

_McGonagall_, he guessed.

The woman spun around, a second too late, and the wires snapped around her.

"Curses, you bitch!" she yelled. "Hrrrrr!"

Through admirable force of will, she aimed her wand at the wires despite the awkward contusion of her hand and Transfigured them into water. She dropped to one knee, next to him, and swept her wand up, sending shards of ice at McGonagall.

It was a deadly counterattack. Yet one that left her vulnerable.

Unexpectedly, the bench clattered away. He wobbled, struggling to keep his balance, and at the same time, a multitude of spells struck the exposed woman. Before his eyes, her wand soared high in the air, followed by a cry of distress as she flew up, yanked upside down by an invisible hook.

"No! No! Bugger!"

"Harry! Harry! Are you alright?" Dumbledore called out, hurrying towards Harry.

"Yeah!"

The weight of his handcuffs suddenly lightened and he rose up, his gaze flying towards Daphne. She gave a shaky nod, acknowledging his unspoken query.

"Fools!" ranted the woman. "This isn't over!"

And suddenly she smirked.

"Get away, Harry!" bellowed Dumbledore a breath later.

Next instant an oppressive presence fell over the group, like a dark, invisible blanket.

He looked up.

From the very heavens, like a falling meteor of doom, a figure dropped down between the lines. Clad in black, head covered in a cowl, and exuding a deadly aura, the newcomer straightened up. The gait and build suggested a tall and athletic male, though it was impossible to discern anything else.

Black fire danced around them, cutting off the rescuers. The flames writhed, as though alive, and rose up and down in haphazard waves. Unexpectedly, one of the tendrils flew towards Snape, who ceased in his advance and warded off the spell with a shield.

For his part, Dumbledore flinched suddenly and then turned his wand downward.

"COVER ME!" he roared.

McGonagall obeyed, creating a shield in front of Dumbledore. Lumps of concrete levitated near his feet, twisting into misshapen, faceless creatures. Of varying sizes, they lumbered over towards the party.

A _snap_ and a crow of triumph followed. Returned to normalcy, the woman deftly caught the item tossed by the stranger at her. Paused.

"My wand!" she exclaimed.

Even as the unholy flames consumed the mindless golems, the wand in question froze in midair, vibrating visibly under the strain of the two Summoners.

"STUPEFY!" screamed McGonagall.

It was a misdirection, but the stranger didn't even look as he sidestepped the orange missile and nudged it towards Snape.

"FINITE!" roared Dumbledore, his voice rising over the din.

As Harry watched, transfixed, the stranger redirected another fiery tendril towards the Headmaster; his breath hitched, surely the spell would strike Dumbledore–but it was not to be so and a chilling scream echoed around the area as the ring of black flames vanished. Light flew from Dumbledore's wand in all directions, joined together in the air in a shining trident–throwing shadows around the combatants–and speared down at the stranger.

The stranger raised his free hand, attempted to shift, and nearly fell over. A moment later, Harry saw why–from the ground, concrete–as pliable as grass yet as tough as stone–webbed over the stranger's boots and wound higher and higher over his legs. Undaunted, the stranger dropped to his knee, faced the elemental bolt in his sights, and moved his glowing hand in a wild blur of motion. Soon chopped up pieces floated up, joined and flattened out into chunks of concrete, and jetted towards Dumbledore's attack.

Magic flew haywire at the point of impact, bouncing everywhere wildly, and forcing the combatants on the defensive. Harry threw his hand over his face, squinting at the brilliant beams of energy darting about. He sprang up, followed the line of the chain, and froze at the sight of Daphne pinned by the woman. Their eyes connected; the woman smirked, raised her palm, and before he could react, he hurtled towards her, landing in an undignified heap next to Daphne. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a slender object rush towards them.

"Yes!" exulted the woman.

"FAWKES!" bellowed Dumbledore as the woman yanked him up and raised her wand.

War cries erupted close by; he looked around, saw Snape charging forward, uncaring of the danger. Flames burst overhead, announcing the arrival of the Phoenix. He turned, saw the woman tap her prize–

"_Home!_"

Time seemed to freeze; a powerful burst of magic that caused his very being to tremble rushed towards them from Dumbledore, the stranger's arms quivered, light spewed from the Portkey, Fawkes' song crested loudly, and McGonagall shouted a spell–

With a loud _boom_, time caught up, and in one fell sweep, the spells battered the stranger's defense like bullets from a machine gun and bounced off, releasing shockwaves in the heated air and tremors within the concrete. Next moment, the stranger hurtled past them, overrun by Dumbledore's final effort–and shock came over the woman's face. In that moment, Harry kicked out desperately, his foot connected with the woman's hip–

At the same time, a bluebell streak struck the woman's hand; freed, the Portkey rose in mid-air, sending the world whirling, and screams intermingled together–

He felt himself pulled by the vortex of the magic. His frame lurched, like autumn leaves scattered by wild winds…

"_Not like this–let me go!"_

Around him, screams and thunder clashed in a noisy din. Golden light flashed, consuming his vision; he blinked, heard a yowl–

Suddenly he was floating as though in space. His body moved in a weightless somersault; the gold blurred and dissolved into a black sky, and his stomach clenched abruptly with a thrill of terror at the rapidly approaching ground.

_Greengrass?! The chain? Shit!_

He turned, dimly conscious of his hair whipping madly in the slipstream. To his huge relief, she was there next to him, in free fall. He reached out, straining with all his might, and grabbed her forearm. She turned, eyes wide with fear, and her lips moved, but he couldn't follow her.

"Wh…" he tried, only for the howling wind to blow the words away.

Daphne tried to mouth something else, but he still couldn't follow. The terrain seemed to grow closer with every moment and he could only stare, hypnotized at the swiftly approaching landmass, twinkling with lights everywhere. It was beautiful–a marvel unlike anything he had ever seen–yet deadly in its lure.

He blinked. Shook his head. Glanced at Daphne's terrified face. Back at the earth. Raised his hand.

"_Arresto Momentum!_" he roared, parroting the words in the recesses of his mind. "_Arresto Momentum!_"

Still they speared towards the abyss. He chanted the spell feverishly, stretching out his palm outwards as though to stop the descent. The surface was almost at them, Daphne's scream crested over the rushing air, and the familiar desire, this time buoyed by his wish to save themselves, returned. This time he knew what to do; he pushed it down to his fingertips and yelled the spell once again with all his power.

_"__ARRESTO MOMENTUM!"_

With an abrupt jerk, they froze in mid-air. His hair fell over his eyes while Daphne gasped. The earth was just inches from them; another second and they would have splattered all over the place.

No sooner than the realization hit him, they plummeted and landed on the ground with soft thumps. He grunted and lifted his head.

"Greengrass?" he muttered. "Daphne?"

A low groan escaped her. She too raised her head and stared at him, her tresses hiding most of her terrified and relieved expression.

"Are you..." he caught his breath, "okay?"

She heaved and placed her hand over her chest, neck, and face as though to reassure herself that she was still alive.

"Yes. Yes." She turned over and stared at the skies. Covered her face with her hands. Expelled a ragged breath. "We made it…we're alive..."

He looked away from the starry canopy at her. His heart still thumped loudly, unwilling to believe the miracle. The ache in his shoulder seemed to have vanished completely.

"Yeah. We are..."

* * *

**Note: **A heartfelt thanks to all of you for your support. Constructive feedback is more than appreciated.


	4. Treks

The thud of a fist striking wood rang out in the silent chambers.

With the air of a weary grizzly bear seeking repose after a futile hunt, Albus Dumbledore sank in one of the nearby visitor chairs. Ran his hand over his streaked face.

"Where did it go all so wrong?" he whispered to no one in particular.

From his damp robes, he drew out a wand–Harry's wand. Placed it on the polished claw-toothed table. Nearby was a device, blackened and devoid of energy. From either side of its body, spindly arms rose in a V-shape, the tips bent towards each other.

A few hours ago, it had hummed with power. In pursuit of its sole function. To locate and track Harry Potter's wand.

Granted by serendipitous luck, it had acquitted itself. At the cost of its life.

Not that he regretted using it. Far from it. Despite its exorbitant price and extreme rarity–it was far easier to capture a Manticore alive–it had been worth every single currency.

But still Harry wasn't with them.

_I have failed again._

The sentiment vexed him greatly; he rose into a familiar pace, hands clasped back and head bent in thought. Around him, silence fell–the silver instruments on spindly tables quietened and the portraits slumbered. Fawkes tucked his beak under his wing, one eye on his distressed master.

_How could I have let him go? That moment, could I have done better? What if Harry is dead now?_

The dark thought invaded before he could cut it off. Carefully, he pushed away the stinging emotions away, and tried a different tack. What should have been a successful night for Wizarding Britain as a whole was now marred by the appearance of the Death Eaters and the Dark Mark. A stark reminder that the brutal past still lingered in the shadows, waiting for its return. And Harry was missing. If Fudge came to know of it, he would perceive it as a loss of face–which in turn would put more pressure on his shoulders. And should the press come to know of it, well he could imagine the headlines...

It had been truly fortunate that Arthur Weasley had the presence of mind to contact him upon locating his son and Miss Granger. Upon receiving the distress call, he had activated the emergency tracker keyed to Harry's wand. Rushed to Arthur with Minerva. Only to see the Dark Mark glowing in the skies.

Fortunately, Harry's wand had been used. Severus, left behind as watch, had easily discerned Harry's location, and then joined him and Minerva. Together they'd hurried to rescue Harry and his unfortunate companion, Miss Greengrass. That was where everything had gone wrong.

No. Disposing the kidnappers was a straightforward affair. The woman had also been subdued until _his_ arrival. From there, things had spiraled out of control. A fatal miscalculation.

A familiar sensation washed over him, interrupting his reverie. He paused. Moments later, the doors flew open and Severus stormed inside, his face filled with utmost fury.

"You promised, Albus!" he snarled.

Abruptly he staggered, caught himself, dragged his frame over the marble and slumped into the previously vacated chair.

"Are you sure you should be up?" Dumbledore questioned gently. "You took the full brunt of the spell after all."

Severus shook his head, winced; his hand massaged his brow.

"It is of little concern. Minerva had it worse." His expression twisted as though he was sipping a bitter concoction. "The brat...you must have some idea where–"

The unfinished sentence hung in the air as Severus' gaze fell on Harry's wand.

"All we can do now is to contact our allies and hope for the best," Dumbledore said soberly.

A muscle twitched in Severus' jaw. "If they–whoever they are–get their hands on the...boy, then all is lost. Surely you are aware of this, yes?"

"And who might they be, Severus? Death Eaters? Or some other unknown force?" Dumbledore's gaze suddenly locked with Severus'. The other man turned away, breaking the brief connection, and kept his gaze low.

"I do not know. If they were...Death Eaters, I am no longer in their favor. No word of today's activities reached my ears." Severus considered for a moment. "But that woman, she was too young to be part of the First War. What of the other people there–can't they provide some answers? What of the newcomer?"

Dumbledore exhaled heavily. "All dead. The newcomer–he called a lightning storm–"

"Nonsense!" snapped Severus. "That would take a ludicrous amount of power, well beyond him!"

"Naturally. It was not a pure summoning–but a combination of copious amounts of water and a bolt of lightning.

Severus frowned. "Explains a few things then."

"It was shrewd thinking on his part. He had no desire to face me and Fawkes, but he also didn't want to leave any loose ends."

"So he fled?" Severus asked and Dumbledore nodded. Only the slight flare of Severus' nostrils revealed the depths of the strike to the man's pride. "We must assume that they are working with the Dark Lord, despite what she may have said."

"And why do you say that?"

His friend's countenance dropped; yet it was apparent to the Headmaster's practiced eye that the other man was wrestling with something. At length, he looked up.

"Because of...this..." With an air of extreme reluctance, he extended his arm, started to unroll the sleeve. On the sallow skin, the Dark Mark was emblazoned–subdued but noticeably sharper and darker.

"It has been growing clearer over the past few months. I am sure that _he_ is either close or becoming stronger."

Dumbledore crossed over to his chair and sank in it. "So much has already happened. Yet without talking to Harry, we cannot conclude if all of this was planned by Death Eaters or another party. The timing is most inopportune though..."

"The Tournament is just a waste of time and money," Severus agreed dismissively. "A foolish endeavor for what?"

"Be that as it may be, it leaves us with precious little energy to investigate this. I can only hope we are as fortunate in the times to come as we were today. Voldemort will naturally lie low, gather his power and then strike."

The other man considered and nodded dourly. "So what of the boy then? You place too much faith in him!"

"Far more than I have in myself."

"Enough!" Severus scoffed. "The boy is lazy and untalented, a lucky hack! How he dragged Miss Greengrass, one of my best students, into this mess, I do not know. But if he used improper means, he will be sorry...very sorry indeed."

"You are too harsh on Harry. By all accounts, they saved each other multiple times today." Dumbledore paused. "Will you not consider telling him? He may have his father's looks, but he has his mother's heart."

"No!" The other man jumped to his feet, slamming his hands on the desk. "He cannot and must never know!"

"As you wish, my friend," returned Dumbledore sorrowfully. "But do consider...both of you can benefit–"

"NO!" bellowed Severus and he stormed away towards the doors. He halted, hand over the gold handle, and looked behind. "Don't bother sending someone to his relatives. I will take care of it myself."

The doors shut behind him, leaving Dumbledore alone again. But no sooner than his thoughts started to pick up from where they'd been interrupted, the Floo fireplace flared to life. From the green light, an anxious voice called out.

"Dumbledore? Dumbledore?! Are you there?"

_What bad timing..._

"Yes Cornelius. To what do I own the pleasure of this late night visit?

"Oh goodie! Merlin, it is everything!" cried out Fudge. "What to say...this night can't end soon enough! It's mad! Completely bonkers! I need you at the Ministry at once!"

"Very well."

He scrawled a note on a piece of parchment and rose.

"Fawkes! Take this to Alastor Moody!"

The phoenix trilled and disappeared in a flash of fire. Dumbledore stepped inside the fireplace.

* * *

Harry stood in the corner of a large, decorated living room, lit by low hanging chandeliers. All at once, a surge of terror rippled down his spine. For he perceived four figures sitting in couches around a center table.

He remained perfectly quiet, not daring to breathe. His gaze travelled over them, and with a great spur of surprise, spied Wormtail among them. The traitor sat there, watching the duo opposite him; his countenance a mixture of fear and fascination. Next to him sat the tattooed man, drinking sloppily off a bottle of dark rum. As he watched, the character slammed the bottle on the table and slapped Wormtail heartily. Something crimson clattered, and Wormtail darted–catching the thin tubes. Harry leaned forward curiously; something thick and liquid was swirling about–blood!

A low wail of pain rolled around the room. Lying on the couch was a male, the very same antagonist. His cowl still hid his face so only the agonies of his mouth were visible. His frame writhed in convulsive torments, and every second, his gloved hand clawed at his torso as though to rip out the anguish. By his side knelt the same woman; she too bore marks of the recent battle.

"Why did you push yourself?" she scolded despite her concerned expression. "It wasn't necessary to use that boosting technique!"

Her companion groaned. "What...to...do when you are...facing off against..." His chest heaved. "Dumbledore! Snape! McGonagall! You...couldn't get away in time, so what other choice was there?"

Distress came over the woman's face and she bowed her head. "My fault. But you still went overboard."

For a moment the only sound was of the tortured man's short breaths. Then the woman rose.

"I am off. You–" she turned to Wormtail. "–make sure that the ritual goes on without a hitch."

The man seized her arm. "Stay!"

"I'm going!" She pulled away. "And that's final!"

"Don't be a fool," gritted out her companion. "Dumbledore will certainly have someone at Potter's place. If you show up, it will reveal too much."

The woman folded her arms. Scowled. Then her defiance dropped. "It would have been the perfect welcome gift for him..."

Heads turned towards the entrance. A burly blond stood there, rubbing his hands idly together.

"Well, Rowle?" asked the woman.

"The Dark Lord is ready to begin the ritual," Rowle confirmed.

As he finished, the world turned dark; Harry struggled, but it taxed his very strength and he gave way to the black.

When he returned to himself, he was standing in a garden under the stars. The landscape stretched out, nondescript, and in the distance stood a boundary wrought of iron.

He turned. Flinched.

Once grand and imposing, the angel now stared blindly past him, finger chipped away by the ravages of time. His ruined companion, of Icarus' build, pointed down at the marble between them, a box of repose and death.

A cemetery.

Through the gaps, gnarled trees stood guard. At the end of the line of cracked sculptures, moss-covered carvings, and weathered surfaces, Death rose in winged glory. His scythe gleamed in the moonlight, throwing the imposing tombstone into sharper focus. Dull orange light flickered over its fungus-covered base, illuminating the etchings.

'DLE'

Goosebumps erupted over Harry's arms; like a moth drawn to flame, he followed...

Ahead a group of people shrouded in dark cloaks stood around a bubbling cauldron. The belly of the cauldron was huge, enough for a child to comfortably hide inside. As before none seemed to notice his presence; he took a tentative step...

Fiery sparks erupted suddenly from the cauldron, and long, bony fingers clasped the rim of the cauldron. He gasped. Stepped back. As though hearing him, the being inside turned.

Their gazes met.

His scar started to itch; he rubbed it slowly, then furiously until pain exploded in his head. Amid the red haze of agony, a loud crack sounded and he heard it clearly:

"Bone of the father!"

"POTTER! HARRY! WAKE UP! POTTER!"

Someone was shaking him hard. He shot up, sweat trickling down his back. His fingers clapped over his still stinging scar and heat pooled under his fingertips. Realizing that he was panting loudly, he bent and covered his face with his hands.

The dream had been so vivid, not unlike what had transpired a few days back at Privet Drive.

"Potter? Are you okay? What happened?"

Greengrass. Daphne Greengrass.

Ignoring her, he looked up at the vast fields around them and listened hard, half-expecting to hear the tread of footsteps or the whoosh of a cloak. The silence lingered until he finally relaxed, allowing his taut muscles to slacken.

"Potter?" questioned Daphne.

He faced her. "Nothing...just a bad dream."

Daphne frowned, folded her arms.

"A bad dream?" she repeated. "You were screaming and shaking! What really happened?"

Her eyes flicked to his scar and he hastily ceased his rubbing, despite the constant prickling.

"Was it something to do with your scar?" she asked, then added more gently. "Are you sure you are alright?"

"Yeah–I'm fine. It was a bad dream!"

"Dreams don't make one shake," she retorted, gesturing with her hand. "Look at you!"

"I–really it's nothing! Besides, there's nothing you can do to help!" he said, irritation seeping into his voice.

"Tell me what happened," Daphne persisted. "Maybe it'll help."

She reached out to touch him, but he flinched and her hand froze in mid-air. Quickly she yanked it back, her eyes hardening.

"It is nothing special. Sorry."

"Fine, Potter. If you want to be like that–fine!" Daphne bit out and turned away.

He lay on his side on the crushed grass and inhaled the heady scent of nature. Ignoring Daphne's soft murmurs of displeasure, he shut his eyes and tried to recall the dream.

Fragments of the dream played out in his mind's eye and ear. The living-room. Wormtail. The groaning man. Rowle. The woman. The cauldron. And...the _thing_ inside.

Had there been a mention of bone somewhere? It was like cupping water. He grimaced, trying to commit the fading snippets to memory. He'd definitely heard a crack too, but when, he didn't remember. And what had the man been warning the woman about?

The _thing_ inside the cauldron...was it Voldemort? Fear gripped Harry, he curled up instinctively. The last time his scar had hurt before the dreams, Voldemort had been in Hogwarts. Right now, his scar didn't hurt anymore. Which was a good thing if the past pattern was anything to go by.

But what had the ritual been for? He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer to that. And he could no longer deny the inexorable fact, despite every cell wishing otherwise, that Voldemort now had a body...and help of sorts.

He repressed a sigh, not wanting to give Daphne any ideas. Doubtless she was listening hard for any sound. The morning wouldn't be a pleasant one and they had to find help quickly. Right now they were two lost teenagers, stranded in an unknown field. Without any money, wand, or identification. Though it was unsaid, they both hoped that a farmhouse was nearby.

It had been truly a strange day. If someone had told him that he would end up spending a night with a Slytherin girl, he would have laughed. Trouble always had a way of finding him.

Harry sighed and closed his eyes. But it was a long time before sleep took him, and even then, it was a fitful one.

* * *

The early rays of sunlight woke them up next morning. Harry stretched and rubbed the sleep crust out of his eyes. Looking around revealed vast swathes of greenery everywhere, and low rolling hills, but no signs of habitation. Even the trees were sparse, though if he strained his eyes, the outline of a dense wood loomed in the horizon.

Daphne came and stood next to him. One look at her profile told him that she was still miffed about yesterday night.

"No farmhouse nearby. I guess we're same way off help."

"As if that wasn't blindingly obvious, Potter."

She assessed her surroundings and set off in the opposite direction away from the rising sun. Leaving Harry staring after her.

Shaking his head, Harry followed her. The silence grew thick but that suited him very well. There were more pressing matters to consider than deal with a snarky girl.

_Even though she did a lot for you yesterday..._

_Same goes for me!_

So lost in his thoughts he was, he didn't notice Daphne halt and nearly stumbled into her.

"Watch where you are going, Potter!" she snapped.

He had meant to apologize, but the vitriol in her tone cut him short.

"Whatever," he returned coldly.

They glared at each other, both unwilling to back down. With a haughty sniff, Daphne turned away.

For how long they walked, he had no idea. Over them the sun continued its steady ascent, occasionally peeking behind cumulus clouds. Despite his considerable efforts, the dark thought that Voldemort might be back kept gnawing him.

And then suddenly it did not matter anymore, there was no need to worry. He raised his hands in front of his face, marveling at their length, dexterity, and loosened a wild laugh. He was happier than he had ever been...who cared about the searing pain in his scar, or the feeling that his head might split into two?

"POTTER!"

Reality seemed to return in slow-motion. Darkness crept over his vision, like a fisheye distortion. He staggered, hands clapped over his scar, then slumped. The last thing he saw was Daphne hurrying towards him, her face full of anxiety.

For how long he lay insensible, he did not know, except when he opened his eyes, the sky was still light blue. He groaned, lifting a hand to block the glare. Hauled himself up. Felt clumps of dried grass peel off his clothes.

"You're awake," came Daphne's voice. "How do you feel?"

"Fine," he returned automatically. "I... what happened?"

She raised her eyebrows, but complied. "I don't know. One moment I was walking, and then I heard you laughing wildly behind me. It sounded really cold, like I don't think you're capable of laughing so...dispassionately."

_What is going on? That sounds an awful like Voldemort…_

"You looked to be in a trance of some sort, examining your hands, and then you collapsed."

Leaning against the tree for support, he ran his hand through his hair. More specks of dirt and grass fell out to the ground. He gazed thoughtfully at Daphne, noting her light perspiration.

"You wouldn't wake up," she went on. "There was no way I could leave you out here in the open, so I dragged you to the nearest tree."

"Sorry..." he muttered. "How long was I out for?"

"No idea. Perhaps an hour?"

They sat in silence. He touched his scar; it felt normal.

"Is it still paining?"

"Thankfully, no."

"I see. You know, the more I see your scar, the more I think it's more than a...relic of the...incident."

"Tell me something I don't know..."

She smiled. "Not bad. Well, generally scars fade over time, but this looks to be...alive."

Harry blanched.

"Alive in the sense that you still feel pain and aches," she hastened to add. "Like, do you often get them...frequently?"

He studied her, not knowing what to say, when a familiar sound reached him. He shot up quickly, broke out into a run towards the direction of the sound, straining his eyes. Then he saw it: a blue truck in the distance, the top of the cargo barely visible over the shrubbery. Hope flared within, and he looked back to see Daphne following him. She nodded, signaling for him to continue.

Eventually they reached the shrubbery and their eyes searched vainly over the high and prickly growth. At length they hurried further alongside and to their great relief, a gap revealed itself. Soon, before them the world exploded into a vista of yellow, whether flowers or crops, neither knew, yet what gladdened their hearts was the long, dark line of freedom ahead.

"Wow. Finally," Daphne's cheeks were bright from exertion, but she sounded relieved. "So which way now, Potter? After all you're the Muggle expert."

"No signposts or farmhouses. Let's rest here a bit and flag down a car. More cars will pass by, besides there's–" Harry gestured back at the direction they'd come from, "–already some shade."

"Sure," Daphne crossed the road and settled down, arms around knees.

She fixed her gaze at the road, as did he, and they waited. At some point of time, he too sat down next to her.

"Thank you."

Caught unaware, he looked at her. A thin scratch stretched up from her jawline, a reminder of the previous night.

"Sorry...for dragging you in all of this."

Her eyebrows knitted and she tucked herself closed. Rested her head on her knees.

"Neither of us," she faced him, "own any apologies to each other. Rather, there's so much I should be thanking you for–"

"It's absolutely fine," Harry ran his hand over hair self-consciously. "You also saved me...so yeah..."

It's a fact, Potter. I don't know what happened with that Portkey, but had you not performed wandless magic, we already would be dead. And definitely not having this awkward conversation."

He grinned. She smiled, rocking herself.

"I wonder though, who were they?"

"The first or second group?"

"Second one. What interests me is how they found us."

"Now that you mention it, it is pretty strange." Harry considered, recalling a detective storybook he'd once read back in school. "Perhaps they were following us?"

"Possible," Daphne agreed. "There are also tracking spells and since it was the World Cup, it's conceivable that anyone could have placed one on you."

Harry fell silent; then a thought struck him.

"The woman, she said she was related to the Blacks, but you said it didn't mean anything. Why? Isn't it some sort of clue?"

Daphne didn't reply immediately, but a thoughtful expression came over her face.

"Out of curiosity, did you ever get to see your family tree? Or a family book?"

"No. Why?"

"Well...because then you'll understand why it's not that useful of a clue. Most of the pure-blood families are related to each other. The Blacks have ties to a lot of families...there's a reason why they were one of the most influential families during their time."

"So you mean to say that the pool of potential suspects is quite huge?"

Daphne nodded. "That's also not taking into account the...forgotten. Family trees show only what a family wishes to show." At Harry's blank expression, she exhaled. "Squibs and undesirables. Like bastard children, and so on."

"Oh..."

"A brutal side exists in most of the families of the Blacks' ilk. Assuming the woman wasn't lying, then you'd have to examine families like the Lestranges, and the...Malfoys."

"What?" yelped Harry.

Daphne nodded. He resisted the temptation to rub his face. Sirius and Draco related to each other...it was a disturbing thought.

"Wonder why she's interested in Black? Maybe to bump him off? Or something else?"

His blood curdled. Privately, he resolved never to speak of today to Sirius.

"No idea."

"Well, you need to watch out for yourself." Daphne paused. "I've heard a little about your adventures, but this is...on a different level. You need to protect yourself."

Her cadence held an ocean of curiosity. To her credit, she didn't try to pump him for information. Which he appreciated.

"How?"

"Well, off the top of my head, you can hire a bodyguard or ask for protection from the Ministry–"

"Not happening. Not after the Dementors."

"Naturally. Though I meant the Aurors. The choice is also a bit of a double-edged one..."

"Because the Ministry would try to use me for my fame?"

"Pretty astute of you," Daphne confirmed, looking surprised but also pleased. "What about Dumbledore? You can ask him for help...he seems to be fond of you."

"Why do you say so?"

"The end of term feast in our First year. All those last minute points, remember? Draco was quite put off by it. And last year?"

"Hmm..."

"Of course, there's also the option of moving to a new country...though I doubt that the Ministry would take kindly to that..."

"Not sure I'd be really fussed..."

"I get you," Daphne murmured. "Fact is, there are people after you. They will not cease until they find you."

Sighing, Harry extended his hands back in the ground and looked up. The sky stretched out before him, blue and vast; an escape calling out to him.

"Is it so hard to be normal?"

"Considering we're still teens, doubt it." Daphne hugged herself close. "I never thought I'd experience something like this."

"Sorry..."

"Don't be. I mean, sure, it's scary and dangerous...but it is how it is." She tilted her gaze at him. "Plus it was eye-opening...in more ways than one."

"How..." began Harry, when the tell-tale sound of a car approaching reached him. He sprang up, raced to the middle of the road, and raised his arms. "Stop! Stop!"

The Ford screeched to a halt. At first glance, it looked to be utterly ordinary. But a closer look revealed scratches running along its faded red body, the side mirror appeared bent, and a small dent on the boot of the car rounded off the picture.

"Looking for a lift, lad?" asked the driver.

He was a bald man with a ruddy complexion and thin lips. A whiff of tobacco hung off his thick arm. His beady eyes lingered appreciatively on Daphne, who scowled but looked away quickly, remembering their predicament.

"Yeah," Harry replied slowly.

"Which way?"

"Uh, where's London?"

"Eh, it's a fair distance away. At least two hours. 'Sides I ain't going to London. Reading is where I'm headed to."

Harry frowned. If he recalled right, Reading was close to Little Whinging. Maybe it was better to go to Privet Drive...though he really didn't want to expose Daphne to his relatives.

"Can you drop us somewhere near Little Whinging?"

"Reckon it's fine," said the man. "Hop in."

Harry expelled a breath of relief. Daphne didn't seem to agree; she stood there, back stiff as a board, and her expression guarded.

"Come on, let's go," Harry held out the car door for her to enter.

She hesitated, then moved over to him. The backseat was shabby, and a smell of leather intermixed with alcohol hit their nostrils.

"What are your names?" asked their rescuer, revving up the car.

"Harry. And this is Daphne."

"Mine's Mark."

The car hummed along, picking up speed. Wind rushed in through the open windows, whipping through their hair. They sat there in restless silence, sharing the bottle of water that Daphne had procured from Mark. The car seemed to eat up the miles as the open scenery kept shifting, from hills, woods, and fields. Suddenly it swerved violently off the asphalt; Daphne screamed as Harry crashed into her, Mark swore, hit the brakes, and with a loud squeal, the car halted.

"What happened?" exclaimed Harry, pulling away from Daphne.

"Dunno. Looks like a puncture. Hang on a moment!" Mark replied and clambered out of the car.

Harry opened the window and looked out; the road was a little distance away from the car. Mark was nowhere to be seen, then the vibrations of rummaging washed over Harry. He glanced back; tension was writ over Daphne's face. She raised her eyebrows questioningly, and jumped as the boot slammed shut. He shook his head, then looked up at the sound of knuckles rapping the windowpane. "WOAH!"

"What is it?" yelped Daphne, then froze.

"Out," ordered Mark, wrenching the door open and aiming a small, battered revolver at them. "Come on, out!"

"Okay. Don't shoot," Harry slipped past Daphne, his mind whirling madly. "We're coming out." Gripped Daphne's hand. "Stay behind me," he whispered.

Together they scrambled out of the car. He stood in front of her protectively, hands raised placatingly.

"What's he holding?" Daphne's grip tightened over his shoulder.

"A gun–"

"Hand over your valuables. Money, jewelry, everything!"

Looking down at the barrel of a gun pointed at him was something that he hadn't ever imagined in his wildest dreams. He swallowed.

"Please, we have nothing. No money, nothing."

"Don't lie!" snapped Mark. "She's got that pretty necklace–give me it! And that bracelet will do nicely too!"

"You bastard," Daphne said venomously. "Robbing from teens...you are scum!"

"Don't!" said Harry quickly as Mark's features darkened with anger.

"Bitch!" Mark's arm lashed out, sending Harry sprawling. "I'll teach you some manners!"

Daphne cried out, her hair jumping about as if alive; Mark gripped her arm, she struggled futilely and his fat fingers forced off her bracelet, while her free hand desperately fought to stop him.

"Daphne!" roared Harry, scrambling to his feet.

"Don't push it," Mark swung his gun straight at him. "I won't hesitate to shoot–AHHH!"

Whether by luck or design, Harry didn't know, but Mark's hand clapped over his eye; Daphne's fingers having raked his organ. His grip loosened, she scrambled away, and Harry charged. Using the force of his momentum, he kicked Mark's shin, felt his sneaker connect with bone–

The gun dropped from Mark's fingers as his bellow of agony rent the vicinity. He bent double and crumpled to the earth.

Maybe they could make a dash for it. Harry spun around, flung out his arms.

"Don't shoot!"

Hair disheveled, she glared at him. "Why not? He was going to kill us! Besides he's a Muggle!"

"Listen," he inched towards her. "I'm sure this is not you. Look, let's get out of here. And don't let go of the gun, or press anything!"

She nodded, the gun swaying in her grip. He reached out, snatched up the bracelet, half-afraid of reprisal. Mark was still moaning in pain, clutching his shin, and eye squeezed shut.

"Come..." Harry wrapped his hands cautiously around her shoulders and drew her backwards. They slipped into the trees nearby, and he swung her around. "RUN!"

And for the umpteenth time, they ran with extreme rapidity into the wild. Harry didn't let go of Daphne's hand despite the many times he looked back, fearful of spying the crazed criminal hot on their heels.

"How do you live with them?" Daphne gasped when they finally tumbled to the ground, utterly spent. Disgustedly, she threw the gun away. "How do you deal with those terrible Muggles?"

He did not answer her immediately but pressed a trembling hand against his heated throat. "Here...take this."

"What?" The exhaustion and annoyance slid from her face as she perceived her bracelet. "Oh Morgana, you got it! Thank you, Harry!"

She flung her arms around him. She let go quickly, and he felt a twinge of regret at the loss of contact. His brow crinkled, but a look at her beaming face banished the curiosity.

"Thank you, thank you," she repeated. Slipped the bracelet on her arm. Pressed it to her cheek. "My great-grandmother gave it to me. It's my only...remembrance of her."

"Oh..."

She steadied herself and looked around. "Looks like we're lost again."

"I don't think so," disagreed Harry. "Look over there."

"What...?" Daphne trailed off as she followed his finger. "Is that a...bridge?"

"Yes," confirmed Harry, rising and dusting his clothes. "Help should be close."

"Right." Daphne mirrored him. "Let's hope...that the next person doesn't feel the need to prey on us. And by the way, you haven't answered my question."

"I'm sure..." Harry hedged. "...that this was just an isolated case...this doesn't happen often..."

"Look," she sighed. "I'm trying not to despise them, but I don't understand why you're defending them! How can you say it is nothing now?"

"Nothing like that! I'm...not sure what to say."

"Sounds a lot like running away!" Daphne's gaze sharpened. "I know you live with Muggles. Tell me honestly, do they treat you well?"

He looked away.

"That's what I thought," Daphne said. Her tone had a slight note of victory, but also of sorrow. "I don't know what they do to you–but there have been whispers that you hate them."

Harry pressed his temples. The familiar pain reared up, pounding against his fraying nerves. He exhaled, trying to grip the shreds of his dignity. "I don't want to talk about this. Can we drop this?"

Daphne's expression softened and she nodded. "Another thing...where did you tell that...fellow to take us to?"

"Privet Drive. My relatives' house."

"Potter, please tell me that you thought this through!"

"If it's about my relatives–" Harry began, but Daphne shook her head.

"No, no! Look, we're on the run. What if that woman is keeping watch on your house? What if we're again attacked?"

Harry winced internally. She made a good point...

"Your expression says everything," Daphne sighed. "Look, I'm not blaming you–"

"Feels like it," Harry muttered, noticing her expression fall. "You're also forgetting that Dumbledore knows about us...at the very least, he'd also keep watch, wouldn't he? Besides what other options do we have?"

"London. Know anyone who lives there?" To which Harry shook his head and she frowned. "Fine then, Diagon Alley."

"Anyone can also be waiting at the entrance."

"There are other ways into Diagon Alley," said Daphne. "Think about it, Diagon Alley is the largest marketplace in our world, and if there was just one physical entrance, it would be bothersome, wouldn't it be?"

"Right..."

"The entrance that I have in mind is one that's used by Muggle-born parents, so there will be a guard too. What do you think?"

"Interesting, but how do we get to London? We can't keep stopping cars until we find one that will take us there, and London's a gigantic city. None of us have money too, plus we need food and water."

"So you want to try for your home?"

"Yes. I know it's a gamble, but the risk holds for every place we go to. Unless there's another magical area that I'm not aware about? What about your house? Is it far from here?"

"I don't like this," Daphne stated after a pause. "It's too risky. But fine...we can try. As for my house, it's near Dover...far enough."

They fell in step with each other and made their way towards the bridge. Eventually, the road again appeared and they stepped over the road rails. There, parked near the bridge, was a police car. The two officers looked up in surprise as they approached them.

Harry proceeded to talk to them, concocting a story of how they had been travelling with friends and got lost inadvertently. The officers listened and then huddled together, conversing softly.

"Who are they?" whispered Daphne.

"Police. Like Aurors," murmured Harry. "But I guess...they're suspicious of us."

"Whatever for?"

The officers turned then, and the taller of them, identified as Philip Dawkins by his nametag, addressed them.

"Okay, so–we'll drop both of you home, but we'll also have a talk with your guardians. Miss, your parents are away in Dover?"

Daphne nodded.

"Please, sir, we just want to go back home," interjected Harry.

"Are you sure?" cut in the other officer, his badge read Jack Blake. "There's something about both of you that I can't figure out." He peered closely at Harry. "You look like a delinquent, what with those clothes and scratches...were you in a fight? Tell me, are you sure you didn't run away from home with your precious girlfriend?"

Daphne looked as though she'd been slapped. Wisely, she turned away.

"We are only fourteen," Harry said, his throat turning dry. "Please, you have to believe me–we didn't run away...we want to return home. You can talk to my uncle."

"Get in the car," Philip interjected. "Let's get moving."

Grateful to escape Jack's glowering face, Harry entered the car with Daphne, though the look she threw him told him enough. Soon the four of them headed off to Privet Drive. Conversation was non-existent, a mercy in itself, and in an hour, the car purred down Privet Drive and halted in front of Number 4. Everything looked to be the same–pristine and sterile.

"So this is your house," Daphne murmured, looking around curiously. "So much for the stories..."

Harry very much wanted to ask her what she meant, but then the door opened and Aunt Petunia stood there, aghast.

What followed next was a meeting of unpleasant proportions. Aunt Petunia immediately rang up Uncle Vernon and made tea for the officers, all while extolling her darling Dudleykins. Dudley, for his part, looked torn between ogling at Daphne and fleeing upstairs.

The first thing Uncle Vernon did upon his return was to pump the officers' hands, loudly praising them for their "great efforts" and "honest services". He ho-hummed and agreed animatedly with the officers' report, proceeded to talk up Harry as a major delinquent who went to St. Brutus, "but we love him anyway despite his destructive tendencies!", and his eyes gleamed at the faint prospect that Harry could be sent to a detention center for some time.

Finally, the officers left. Dudley draped himself over the sofa and eyed Daphne lasciviously.

"Why are you with him?" he asked.

Daphne fixed Dudley with a piercing gaze, causing the fat boy to visibly quail.

"Better him than you," she remarked coldly, causing Aunt Petunia to look outraged.

Uncle Vernon came back to the living room and hurriedly peered out of the nearest window.

"They are gone," he muttered and turned around.

Instinctively, Harry stepped in front of Daphne. Next moment, the sound of a thunderous crack filled the room; searing pain broke all over his face and Daphne shrieked behind him.

"You–you–" Uncle Vernon towered over Harry, sprawled over the floor, and Daphne's kneeling form. The vein in his temple twitched alarmingly, and his moustache quivered with uncontrolled rage. "What in the blazes were you thinking? Getting the police involved–how dare you try and besmirch our good name?"

He raised his foot to stomp Harry, and Daphne flung out her arm protectively.

"And you bring this girl home! No doubt one of your kind! I'll wager that she's a good-for-nothing ho!"

"No," Harry murmured, struggling to get his bearings. "No, she isn't–don't talk about her like that!"

"You bastard!" Uncle Vernon bellowed, bent down, pushed Daphne aside, and yanked Harry to his feet by his hair. "You dare to talk back to me? We, who have done so much for you? You should be like your parents–DEAD!"

BANG!

The door flew off its hinges and everybody looked at the entrance. Snape stood there, wand out. His gaze swept over the room and narrowed at Harry and Daphne's forms.

"YOU!" Uncle Vernon roared. "Get out of my house!"

Snape's wand moved, and Uncle Vernon cried out, clutched his head and sank to his knees. Two more grey jets struck Uncle Vernon, rendering his hands limp.

Aunt Petunia whimpered at the sight of the wand aimed at her. Above them, Dudley's thunderous stomps echoed around the house and a door slammed shut loudly.

Through the haze of pain, Harry felt Daphne's fingers gently press his arm.

"Get up," she murmured. "Let's get out of here.

"Yeah."

He gathered his strength and clambered back to his feet. Aunt Petunia now sat on the sofa, her fingers raking the velvety arms. Her mouth was agape in a soundless scream. He found that he didn't care very much. With a last look at Aunt Petunia's trembling figure and Uncle Vernon's writhing frame, he staggered out of the house with Daphne.

Soon Snape appeared, pocketing his wand, and held out his hands.

"Take my hands," he ordered. "We are going to Hogwarts."

There was a squeezing sensation, as though he was being forced through a narrow pipe, and then the familiar wrought iron gates of Hogwarts loomed before them.

They were finally safe.


	5. Revelations

The smell of antiseptic, mild and with an undertone of fragrance, assaulted him as he rose from his repose.

_The Hospital Wing_, he realized.

Footsteps tapped towards him, and a familiar voice, accompanied by an equally welcome face, addressed him.

"Welcome back, Mr. Potter. I must say, you keep breaking records…landing here before start of term? How do you feel?"

"Fine," Harry sat up, rotated his shoulder. "I missed you too, you know. I feel good. No pain."

The laugh lines around Madam Pomfrey's mouth deepened as she chuckled.

"Good." Still smiling, she took out her wand, and waved it front of him in a complex pattern.

He looked around, half-hoping to see Daphne. But it did not appear to be so; the rest of the Hospital Wing was devoid of patients.

"Miss Greengrass left yesterday night," Madam Pomfrey said as she examined his right arm. "Her parents came and took her home."

"Oh. Right."

"She also left something for you." On the table next to his bed was a scroll. He picked it up and fingered it. "I'll go and get you breakfast, Harry. Afterwards, the Headmaster wishes to speak to you in his office."

She bustled away, leaving Harry alone. Unfurling the scroll, he read:

_Harry,_

_When you wake up, please send me an owl. I wish to speak with you._

_DG_

Graceful handwriting, but hurried. Feeling a silver of pleasure, he set it aside. Soon Madam Pomfrey returned with his breakfast and made small talk with him as he fed himself.

Once done, he dressed and made his way to the Headmaster's office. Hogwarts was quiet, devoid of motion, a far cry from its usual active state. A set of ancient and weedy squires gave him company, hopping and dashing through the languorous paintings, and soon the large stone gargoyle came into view.

For a moment, panic overtook him; he didn't know the password. To his relief, the gargoyle parted aside at his approach and he ascended the winding stairs. Reaching the large doors, he knocked.

"Ah, Harry! Come in, come in," greeted Dumbledore, rising from his desk and striding over to Harry. Dropped a hand on his shoulder. "How do you feel?"

"Fine, sir." Dumbledore looked the same as ever, unflappable and cheerful. "What about you?"

"Oh, a little worn out, I'm not afraid to admit," Dumbledore patted Harry. "Come, there is a lot we must discuss."

As he walked towards the visitor chairs at the opulent desk, there was a light flutter of wings, and Fawkes settled on his shoulder.

"Hello Fawkes," Harry murmured, petting the majestic phoenix, who trilled.

"Some sherbet lemon?" Dumbledore proffered the candy bowl to Harry, who took one.

For a while, neither spoke. It was a comfortable quiet, borne from a reflexive familiarity despite their differences. Occasionally one of Dumbledore's devices hummed softly; behind, the morning rays pierced the windows and spilled upon the antique telescope.

"You have no idea just how glad I'm to see you safe and sound," began Dumbledore. He laced his long fingers on the polished desk and surveyed Harry over his half-moon glasses. "What happened should have never happened, but it did. Once again, I am blown away by your bravery and quick thinking."

Harry's chest tightened at the memories of the past two days. The race, the skirmish, the interrogation, the battle, the fall, the dreams, and the journey…it all felt surreal…stitched together to form a tapestry of vivid moments.

"Forgive me," Dumbledore went on. "I failed to protect and rescue you–"

"Professor?" Harry said uncertainly. "You came and saved us!"

"You're very kind," A watery smile came over Dumbledore's aged features. "The goodness in you is truly a miracle. I, however, do not deserve your compassion."

"I don't understand…"

"Please let me finish. There's a lot to talk about…and I daresay that you may become furious with me."

_What does he mean? Could it be?_

A memory of his eleven-year old self in the Hospital Wing flashed before him. Anticipation swelled within his breast. Unconsciously his posture straightened.

"I must know, Harry. Though you may be loath to remember, would you tell me what happened in the last two days, after the match ended?"

Harry slowly blinked and started speaking. The Headmaster offered no interruption, listening carefully. When Harry mentioned rescuing Daphne during the sprint, he nodded approvingly. When he learned of Harry's kills, he closed his eyes. When Harry spoke of the woman's curses, his lips whitened, whether out of anger or distress, Harry did not know.

But what distressed him the most of all was learning about the Muggle's attempt to rob them. At that, he rose and turned towards the fireplace. And when Harry finished his tale with the incident in Privet Drive, he raised his head at the ceiling and exhaled.

At length, Dumbledore turned. It struck Harry then how weary he appeared to be, as though he was hoisting a heavy burden. The Headmaster leaned against the back of his chair.

"Once again you've risen above the situation and demonstrated bravery beyond your years. All of what has happened is most alarming. It has been many years since an attack of this scale was inflicted on the Muggles by Death Eaters. Voldemort's followers, Harry." he added, noticing Harry's questioning look.

Sliding into his chair, he rested his elbow on the wooden arm and linked his hands together.

"However, I am reasonably confident they were not connected with your kidnapping."

"I think so too," agreed Harry. "The kidnappers weren't wearing masks, though they could have disposed of them…"

"Indeed. There is another reason, which I shall share in due time. During the attack on the Muggles, you chanced upon Mr. Malfoy and his group, and came under attack from a band of thugs–who gave chase and eventually overpowered you."

"Those thugs…I wouldn't be surprised if they were somehow tipped off about our whereabouts…"

Dumbledore nodded. "Unfortunately, most of them perished, and the ones who were captured were low-ranking members with no useful information."

Harry shifted uneasily. If the kidnappers had tipped off the thugs, then turned on them, it was a huge betrayal–that spoke of extreme brutality. Just how poisonous was the world?

"The kidnappers…I am fairly sure they were Death Eaters despite their attempts at falsehoods. And they were most certainly tracking you. How, I can only speculate," Dumbledore's fingers drummed the edge of the table lightly.

"Daphne and I discussed it, and we think they may have used a spell, or followed us. It…doesn't make it easier though…"

Unwelcome as it was, the feelings of vulnerability still came–in long, drawn out waves. Despite sitting in Dumbledore's office, behind sturdy walls and webs of ancient enhancements, he felt exposed, laid bare for the evil targeting him. Waiting for their moment to strike.

He shuddered and rubbed his eyes as though warding off the frightful thoughts. Adjusted his slightly askew spectacles and returned to Dumbledore.

"You may be interested to know how we located you," murmured the Headmaster. "I assure you I had no intention of tracking you continuously, except in times of extreme danger…and that too as a last resort. Your wand was directly bonded with an artifact. This one–" he indicated a dark, blackened object with thin arms on a table under the portrait of Armando Dippet.

Harry rose, walked down the marble steps, over to the tracker, and ran a curious finger along it. Cold to touch, quite dead. His imagination drifted, endeavoring to figure out its operation.

"When Mr. Weasley reported you missing, I activated the artifact and it was on the lookout for any magic performed by your wand. It was very lucky, very lucky indeed that the woman decided to use your wand, despite her nefarious spells, and the tracker picked up your location. Professor Snape immediately informed us about your location, and what happened next, you know…"

"You were trying to protect me, keep me safe," Harry said quietly, seating himself again. "I understand."

Some of the tension lifted from Dumbledore's shoulders. "Please be assured that I shall not invade your privacy again–this hopefully was a one-time occurrence–and besides, I also trust you."

Though he could not quite put his finger on it, he knew that something had changed between them.

Irrevocably.

"Were you able to capture any of the kidnappers?" he asked, though he had an inkling that he already knew the answer.

"No," confirmed Dumbledore heavily. "You remember the final fighter–the one who summoned the black flames?"

"Yes. He didn't look to be in good shape after the battle." Harry idly twisted a loose thread on his jeans. "And…and he told the woman not to go somewhere as it would reveal too much."

"Interesting," murmured Dumbledore. "I wonder…in any case, he created a lightning storm that destroyed the warehouse and killed everyone inside it…save for us."

Harry tore his gaze away, suddenly feeling light in his head. He had killed, heard about more deaths–yet each death was like a hammer blow to his center. Each point of impact invoked shockwaves spiraling all over his self, a continuous reinforcement of the severity of the stakes at hand.

"He was extremely ruthless…and did not want to leave any loose ends."

"All this secrecy…" Harry trailed off, moistened his lips. "There was a name I heard–Rowle. Does it mean anything to you?"

"Rowle is the name of a wizarding family. One who was connected to Voldemort during the First Wizarding War," Dumbledore steepled his hands. "Was this Rowle a man or woman?"

Harry tried to remember more of the dream, but it was futile. The fragments committed to memory repeated themselves, almost mockingly…

"No," he admitted, screwing up his face in frustration. "I can't recall anything else, except for what I've told you."

"It is certainly a lead, a valuable one. I shall make the necessary inquiries."

"Professor…what do you think about all of this? Everything here is connected to Voldemort, isn't it?"

Dumbledore didn't reply immediately. He regarded Harry, a far-away look creeping over his wizened face.

"There was one more incident, which I am not sure you are aware about, during the World Cup. One which directly led to the original Death Eaters fleeing from the skirmish. The Dark Mark was flown at the World Cup."

"The Dark Mark?"

"Voldemort's symbol," Dumbledore paused, apparently reliving memories of the past. "A symbol that he branded on his followers, and used as a mark of terror. The Dark Mark served as a means of communication between him and the Death Eaters. If he wished to call them, they would know of it…"

"How does it look like?"

In reply, Dumbledore produced his wand. Green tendrils of smoke spewed out from it, twisting itself into a glittering skull with a snake protruding from its mouth. The entire sequence invoked a feverish dread, similar to the sight of the aflame men, and Harry turned away, feeling a wave of nausea.

"At one time," Dumbledore dispelled the brand, "this symbol was the bane of the Wizarding World. It was used as a mark of victory by the Death Eaters...imagine coming home or going to work and finding the Mark hovering overhead...your family, friends, acquaintances, all gone. So you can imagine the terror that occurred at its appearance."

"So…you're saying there was yet another party involved?"

"Yes. The Ministry found the guilty wand in possession of an elf. I, however, am disinclined to believe it. Mr. Crouch thought otherwise and dismissed her."

"That's why you believe the Death Eaters who started all of this weren't involved with the kidnappers. Because they fled," Harry paused, then plowed on. "You think for now only the kidnappers are connected with Voldemort, but eventually all the three parties will converge at some point?"

"An excellent and shrewd conclusion," Dumbledore rose and clasped his hands behind his back. "About Voldemort himself–after taking into account the events and your dreams, it is my belief he now has a…temporary body."

_Which would fit with the dream at Privet Drive…how he was able to wield a wand…_ mused Harry. _Still, it is a blow…scary…to hear confirmation…_

Aloud, he said, "Before the World Cup, there was another dream…in Privet Drive…and I saw Wormtail–" Noticing Dumbledore's expression, his eyes widened. "You already know about it?"

Dumbledore nodded. "You are not Sirius' only correspondence. His mail came today morning, before you awoke."

"Did he say anything else?" asked Harry anxiously, praying with all his might that the sudden dread bubbling in the pit of his stomach would be just a false alarm.

Dumbledore seemed to pick up on his distress, for his voice became gentle. "Sirius also was most insistent on returning back to Britain–"

"What? No!" yelled Harry, leaping to his feet. "He can't come back…what if he's captured or something?!"

"Harry, I promise to protect him to the best of my abilities."

Harry barely heard Dumbledore's words. Amid the pounding blood in his ears, a man's voice sounded out in the recesses of his mind–Nathaniel Davis. Maybe it was time to throw caution to the winds and talk, see what could be done. He would be damned if Sirius somehow got captured. Which reminded him–

_Later. Not now. Voldemort is the focus here…_

He allowed himself to sink back into his chair. Met Dumbledore's concerned gaze. The Headmaster evidently cared for him. But Sirius–he was different. He was…_family_.

With great effort, he forced out the next words from his throat.

"Okay. But we need to discuss Sirius' situation–and another matter later. After this…discussion about Voldemort."

Dumbledore inclined his head. He moved towards Harry, all while keeping the connection unbroken.

"Right…so, Wormtail is already with him. Now that man and woman are with him…and there was that instance of a cauldron…" Harry looked at Dumbledore, who was now perched on the edge of the desk. "How though…how does he have a body? Wasn't he just a spirit…last time?"

"He was," agreed Dumbledore. "Again I am guessing, but I believe that the cauldron signifies a ritual–or potion…perhaps for the purpose of returning him to a body or strengthening him. Did you fully see him?"

Despite his solemn consideration, nothing new came to mind. Except for the creature inside and the strange fit commencing the alien twitching of his fingers.

"No. But I agree…he now has a body of some sort…But wouldn't that mean he's back?!"

"I…" Dumbledore seemed to choose his words carefully. "…do not think he was ever truly gone. But he is…growing stronger."

Feeling Dumbledore's eyes on his scar, the question fell effortlessly from his lips.

"Do you have any idea why my scar hurts now and then?"

There was no doubt about it; the Headmaster's gaze sharpened and the air around him shifted.

Harry flinched.

Gone was the kindly Headmaster; instead a battle-hardened mage sat before him, coldly analyzing his scar. The image shivered away, but the power lingered, an icy warning against his cheek.

"Again it is my conjecture, but I believe that your scar hurts when Voldemort is nearby, like during your first year, or when he's feeling a particularly strong emotion, like anger, or hatred."

"But…" Harry frowned, remembering Daphne's thoughts. "Is my scar alive?"

Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up. That was enough for Harry.

"It is, isn't it?" he went on before Dumbledore could speak. "We're somehow connected?"

"Yes. To be clear, I suspect your visions are actually events happening far away.

"But if he has a body…then can't he…somehow reverse the connection?" Harry asked, suddenly fearful.

Fearful of the realization. Fearful of what it could entail. And fearful of what Dumbledore's answer would be.

"At this point, I can only offer a theory, nothing more than that. But I do not think Voldemort is even aware about the connection–or capable of reversing it."

He reached out and placed his hand over Harry's shoulder.

"Do not despair, Harry. You are not–and never will be a danger. This I believe in more than anything else."

Green locked with blue, searching for any hint of deception or concern, but discovered nothing. Left with little choice, he nodded–clinging onto the branch of hope and conviction offered.

Dumbledore drew away and reached out for a roll of parchment on his desk.

"I have a question. An important one. I want you to think very carefully before answering."

"Yes?"

"At any point of time, did anyone try to draw blood from you…or did you feel any sensation resembling a prick of a needle?"

Harry meditated on the question. After a few moments, he shook his head. "No. Nothing like that I can recall. Why?"

In reply, Dumbledore proffered the parchment.

It was a medical document detailing the injuries suffered in the past week in painstaking detail. His shoulder ached suddenly, seemingly under phantom pain. Slowly his eyes traveled over the list; only one comment was circled and underlined.

"Puncture mark in the median cubital vein, located in the crevice of the left elbow," he read out. Snapped his gaze up at Dumbledore. "They took my blood?"

"It certainly seems so," Dumbledore confirmed. "Which is extremely concerning, if Voldemort is in possession of your blood."

"Because he cannot touch me?"

"Yes. Your mother's protection runs within your blood. If he were to somehow imbibe her protection as well, I believe he would be able to touch you and render much of the protections useless."

"That is…I…" Harry's mouth went dry.

In the stillness of the room, the tread of the Headmaster's boots down the stairs was quite loud. He made for Fawkes; at some point of time, the familiar had returned to its perch, and stroked the brilliant plumes.

"There was something else you wished to discuss, Harry?"

"Yeah." Harry paused, recalling the girl and her sister. "Do you know a Norma Bagley?"

"Oh? Her?" Dumbledore turned, a faint smile on his lips. "Indeed, I do know her. She is an acquaintance of mine. Might you be referring to her books about you?"

Of all the things he'd considered to hear, this was not what he'd expected. "You know about them?"

"Of course. I asked her to write and publish books about you. I admit my motives were less than altruistic–not entirely for the benefit of the Wizarding World, but for you."

As he spoke, the Headmaster walked back to his chair and settled down once again.

"Your father donated generously to the war effort and also supported his friends…especially Remus." Again Dumbledore's cadence shifted into one of recalling old memories. "While I do not know the finances of your family, out of respect–I also did not want you to be in a position of financial want. So I created a trust for you, where a percentage of all the profits go to...and the entire amount will be yours once you reach the age of 18, a year after your majority."

Harry didn't know what to say. He felt strange, unable to absorb the words completely.

"But why wasn't I told about this?" he asked, feeling a little light-headed.

"Because it was meant to be a secret. I didn't want anyone to covet or pilfer the nest egg. It is solely for you alone, something to fall back on, should you ever be desirous of money. If I cannot secure my greatest hope, the least I can do is to secure your future comforts."

"Your greatest hope?" Harry repeated.

For the first time, the Headmaster seemed to age before him. The bright blue eyes dulled and his wrinkles grew more prominent. Slowly, the Headmaster ran his hands over his face and pressed his eyes. He dragged his hands away and laced them once again on the desk.

"To give you a happy childhood," he began.

Suddenly Harry didn't want to hear anything more. His heart thumped; he stared intently at the face before him…

"When you were an infant, I left you with your aunt and uncle. I knew it then. I knew that you were going to suffer at their hands. Why couldn't I have placed you with a Wizarding family? Many would have been delighted, even honored to take you in. The answer to that was my priority to keep you safe. You were still in danger, despite Voldemort's defeat, and his followers–some are as terrible as him–would have hunted you down."

He looked wearily at Harry. "Did you ever know that there was no body discovered at the time he fell?

"What? How's that possible?"

"Yes. I was one of the first at the scene. Your house in Godric's Hollow was ripped apart–and your parents' bodies were there–but nothing of Voldemort. I realized it then. I knew he would certainly return. When, I had no clue. Perhaps after a decade. Or two. But he would positively return and his aim would be to seek and destroy you in retaliation for the injury you had inflicted on him."

The specter of the man with two faces flickered briefly before Harry.

"But I knew where he was weak, despite his knowledge of greater and terrible magic. Your mother, who died to save you consciously and willingly, placed a protection on you. A blood protection that flows in your veins to this day. After I learnt about her sacrifice, I placed one of my own charms–a bond of blood charm–which could only be realized if your–family took you in. Your aunt, Harry."

"But she hates me! She doesn't give a damn about me!"

"Yet she still took you in. Furiously, hatefully, begrudgingly, but she still took you in. And in doing so, she sealed the charm that I placed on you. Your mother's sacrifice made the strongest charm I could possibly place. When you return to the place you call home, Voldemort cannot harm or touch you."

Dumbledore paused and studied Harry's rebellious expression.

"I am truly sorry, Harry. I believed that I was keeping you safe, but I was mistaken. I was only keeping your physical self safe–and not _you_ completely."

"You could have told this before when I asked about it during my first year," Harry returned bitterly. "It wouldn't have made things better…but at least I could have–got some understanding of why I had to return to that…hellhole again and again!"

He squeezed his eyes shut, turned away, and bit his lip hard until the blood almost started, to prevent the pain and anger from overwhelming him.

"How long does this…protection last for? And do I have to stay there all the time during my holidays?"

"Until you come of age. And…" Here Dumbledore sighed. "Yes. As so long you remain with them, he cannot touch you. However, it will break if you intend to part ways with them, and call somewhere else home."

"What if I call Privet Drive _home_, but visit somewhere else and _stay_ there? It will be still active; wouldn't it be?"

"Yes. As I said earlier, I trust you on this. If you wish to visit the Weasleys, or stay somewhere else, I understand. But I must insist that you stay at the Dursleys for at least a week, if not for a month, and keep me informed of your new place."

"No."

He stared straight into the titan's eyes, meeting them with all manner of conviction.

"I refuse to go back to the Dursleys even for a week. They bully, harass, and neglect me! They treat me like a servant, and expect me to take it? I won't. Have you ever been humiliated before someone you've just met, or jailed in front of your friends? They hate the sight of me so much that they try to take away the only things that matter to me!"

At some point of time, he'd risen to his feet. He pressed his knuckles against the wood, uncaring of the rapid loss of blood.

"Uncle Vernon...he struck me in front of Daphne! I mean...how much more weak, pathetic can I look? What if she says something? I can't deal with her pity or other people finding out that...they push me around!"

The portraits were awakening, staring at him in astonishment.

"...that was the last straw! Hitting me! Always trying to make me small and insignificant, setting dogs on me, allowing Dudley's gang to beat me–I WONT GO BACK! And that's FINAL!"

His chest heaved, his breath came out in wild, short pants, and his glasses quivered on his nose. Blood pounded in his head, matching the thumping of his heart.

Dumbledore sat still, quite still that he appeared to be a statue of a Medusean victim. He looked away. Covered his features.

That did it for Harry. All strength seemed to leave him and he fell lifelessly into the chair.

After what passed for an eternity, though reality spoke otherwise in the passing of moments, Dumbledore removed his hands from his face.

"Harry..." His voice sounded sad and tired. "Harry, I am so sorry. Words can do little to repair the past...but I can only apologize profusely."

"I don't care."

"I will be talking to your uncle and aunt. Professor Snape already told me what happened, and rest assured, action is already being taken."

Harry shook his head, shrugged uncaringly.

"The considerable rise that Vernon Dursley has enjoyed in his career...will be halted. Also–"

"It's meaningless, Professor. I'm not going back...even if I'm a minor–"

"May I request one last consideration? From a long-term perspective? Perhaps one day, before your majority, you may be in need of a safe house urgently, though I hope it never comes to that...and there is no safer place than your aunt's home."

"Why are you so fixated on having me return to that blasted place?"

"On the contrary now," Dumbledore corrected. "I was mistaken, Harry." His clear blue eyes met him, laid bare. "But I would not have you do a mistake on yourself and diminish the protection of your mother."

Bile rose within him. He clenched his jaw hard, enough to make his molars protest. Unable to look at Dumbledore, he squeezed his eyes shut.

For once the black was a welcome relief. How could Dumbledore suggest returning back to the Dursleys? Even if it made sense in a pragmatic, hateful way...did Dumbledore know something he didn't know? Of course, that was it, more secrets...

"Not for a week," he said. "One day. And that too only until evening."

"Of course, though I would suggest two days. Once at the beginning of the holidays, and once when the holidays are about to end. And…you will not go alone. I will ensure that a companion is with you for the entire duration."

"Any determined witch or wizard can find a way," Harry commented. "For instance, if that woman hoodwinked a Muggle to lure me out of Privet Drive–" he spread out his hands, "–well, there you go."

"Which is why you will have to be vigilant. But you are not alone–"

"Can't relax at school, can't relax at home, what is it to me?"

Perhaps it was the sheer exhaustion or the raw hurt in his voice, he didn't know, but Dumbledore hid his head between his hands. At length the brilliant blue eyes revealed themselves and rested upon Harry.

"It is time. The last few years have been enough for me to see what kind of person you are–and how you will be in the coming years. Everything revolves around you and Voldemort, and while the reason is a matter for later, I also realize that Voldemort will keep pursuing you. And that means conflict."

"You mean…war," said Harry softly.

"Alas, as much as I wish it was not the case, it will occur. Perhaps it has already started–with the attempted kidnapping."

Harry nodded. It made sense. In a twisted, wicked way.

"Everything I've done is to try and protect you. I have watched hundreds of students pass through Hogwarts, and few had to overcome such trials and burdens as you have. You know only one of my failures; there are many more.

"Ultimately it is clear to me the greatest way I can protect you is not by my skill or knowledge alone. You are dear to me, Harry, and that will never change. However, you need to learn, equip yourself…so that you can protect yourself and achieve what so many, including me, see–your true self and potential."

Hope threatened to buoy Harry's heart, but he sternly controlled it. He'd been burned too many times, yet he could not stop himself from hanging onto every word of the Headmaster.

"I think…it is time I took a greater interest in your education. From today we shall begin lessons together until start of term."

Unable to believe what he was hearing, he stared at Dumbledore with mounting excitement. To be under the tutelage of Albus Dumbledore…thousands would kill to be in his place…

"But," Despite the pleasure on Dumbledore's face, his voice remained grave. "I will need your utter commitment. It saddens me to say this, but save for Defence Against the Dark Arts, your marks are lacking in the other areas. Many of your professors think so too. While your practical application is top-notch, there is very little substitute for knowledge. Can I expect a greater effort from you starting from this year?"

A reproachful voice, unlike Hermione's, floated through his mind. Followed by Sirius and Lupin's comments about his father and mother. Hot shame suddenly flooded within him. His parents had achieved so much, had been top students in their time, had sacrificed so much for him…the least he could do to honor them was to strive to be a better–no–top student like them.

He stared at Dumbledore resolutely. Nodded.

"Excellent," Dumbledore smiled, then became serious again. "On that note, I would like to discuss one of your electives. Divination, Harry. Is there any specific reason you picked it up?"

Embarrassed, Harry ducked. It had been out of a feeling of familiar inadequacy that he'd picked Divination, which incidentally Ron had picked up too.

_No. I picked it because if I was bad, Ron would at least be able to help me out…misery loves company…_

"Mostly because I didn't know if I'd be able to do well in the other electives, sir," he murmured.

"Understandable," Dumbledore said kindly; he looked up, did not spy any disappointment in the Headmaster's face, indeed there was no judgement in the warm eyes. "I believe though, with a little focus you could have done well in Study of Ancient Runes, or Arithmancy. Were you good in mathematics during primary school?"

"Alright." To which Dumbledore shook his head.

"No. Try again."

"I was pretty good," Harry admitted.

_It feels good to just…say it._

"But they didn't like it when I overshadowed Dudley."

A flicker of unhappiness raced over Dumbledore's expression, but he nodded. "Much better." He regarded Harry. "Do you know why I brought up this subject?"

Harry shook his head.

"Because I wanted to emphasize how a decision–made in a moment or over time–can have consequences that you may not be aware of while making it. Hindsight is a painful…but also rich concept. Divination, when compared with Runes and Arithmancy, is less than useful. If you have the Sight, it is tailor-made for you."

He smiled to reduce the sting of his words.

"I do not say this lightly. I would have never told you of this, if I thought you were not strong enough to understand. Take the counsel of people, by all means, have faith in yourself and your abilities–and make the decision, no matter how tough it is."

The words did little to heal Harry. Not for the first time in the past hour he silently cursed his younger self.

"If I could," Dumbledore went on, a faint crease on his brow, "I would have made arrangements for you to switch the subject to one where you displayed the most aptitude for. However, with the O.W.L.s starting next year, you would be under immense pressure, which I also do not wish to inflict upon you."

"Is…is there nothing that can be done?"

"Perhaps," Dumbledore responded thoughtfully. "I, however, believe there will be little chance of Miss Granger's situation repeating itself, owning to irreparable damage."

"Oh."

Dumbledore reached back, and opened one of his desk drawers. He drew out a wand, an excruciatingly familiar one–

"Is that–" The words dropped from Harry before he could stop himself.

"Your wand," said Dumbledore, proffering it to him.

It was like being in Ollivander's all over again. The sensation of the familiar wood was indescribable; he luxuriated in its feel, gave it a wave.

Gold and red sparks burst from the tip, and a warmth, unlike a roaring fire on a cold winter night, spread over him, as master and wand rejoiced at their reunion.

"Thank you–I–" He paused, unable to convey his words properly. "I thought I'd lost it forever…this means a lot to me."

"Naturally," said Dumbledore. "A few other things. As you are here in Hogwarts now, I have taken the liberty of arranging for your belongings to be brought here. They are currently in your new dormitory in Gryffindor Tower. Is that acceptable? Or would you prefer to join the Weasleys back at the Burrow?"

"No," responded Harry. "I want to stay here and learn as much as I can during this time.

"A most wise decision," Dumbledore smiled. "We will work together for as much time as possible…ideally from morning to evening. You will get breaks in between, of course…and I shall also lend you a few books for your private study. I should emphasize, Harry, that those books are meant for your eyes only, and no one else."

"Of course, sir."

"I'm glad to hear that. Now, shall we conduct ourselves down to the Great Hall? We shall begin training at once; time is of the essence."


	6. The First Wall

There was something disorienting about the silence engulfing the Great Hall. Devoid of human presence, the incongruous remnants invoked a curl of alienation over him. He paused, let the strangeness shiver away.

Still it wasn't something he could get used to. His eyes travelled over the large tables, remembering the boisterousness of the meal-times, heads bent over books, and the exuberant ceremonies. Yes…in a way, the Great Hall built up much of the homely feeling of Hogwarts.

Sounds of rattling furniture crashed against his ears. Directed by Dumbledore's magic, the House Tables floated over to a corner, and with a loud thud, planted themselves.

In the immediate emptiness, two squashy, purple armchairs appeared in front of the stairs leading up to the High Table.

"Let's sit," Dumbledore sat down; Harry obeyed, and the Headmaster steepled his hands. "So, Harry…a question for you."

"Yes?" Harry asked, leaning forward.

"In your view, what do you think is more important in a duel or fight—attack or defense? Or something else?"

Harry's first impulse was to say defense, but he held his tongue. Doubtless there was something else at play. He let his mind wander, recalled the duels he'd experienced: Lockhart's ill-fated duel with Snape, his own duels with the thugs, the skirmish—

"Strategy? Understanding and figuring out how to overcome your opponent?"

"An excellent answer, but not the right one. While the strategic moments are undoubtedly important, in a real duel, you often have seconds to react."

So it was as he'd suspected—something different from the run-of-mill choices. He cast his thoughts about again, then it struck him.

"Escape." Dumbledore's eyes sparkled, answer enough. "Realizing…knowing how and when to…retreat?"

"Correct. Do I detect a hint of doubt? I can understand why. On the surface, escape…or retreat sounds cowardly…dishonorable. Perhaps it is so. I ask you this, did the thought not cross your mind during the past few days?"

"It was continuously on my mind."

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "Frankly, the best way to fight is not to fight—or get into a fight. But sometimes, and with these dark times upon us, it is inevitable. Understanding when and how to escape is the next best option."

"So you're going to teach me…Apparition?"

"Yes. It is the quickest and most efficient way of escape and transportation. Plus, it gives you a huge advantage in a duel—the ability to quickly reposition yourself. Granted, it can be a little uncomfortable and queasy in the beginning."

"When Snape brought us here, it felt like I was being sucked through a tube," admitted Harry. His expression became firm. "It'll certainly take some getting used to. I'm ready though."

"Professor Snape," The familiar correction fell from Dumbledore's lips which then stretched into a smile. "So—to begin with, Apparition is the method of disappearing from the spot you currently are at and appearing in another place of your choice. With me?"

"Yes. How do you Apparate? By thinking of the location you want to go?"

Dumbledore nodded. "You're picking up fast. You visualize the location, and part of the work is done. But the place needs to have a strong connection with you for the best outcome."

"Like visiting it before?"

"Yes."

"What about looking at a picture or photograph?"

"An excellent question. Unfortunately, neither will be enough alone. There has to be a sufficient connection with the place first. Then there is the question of range. Let's imagine that you wish to travel to the Eiffel Tower in Paris. You would be hard-pressed, as it is in France, and of significant distance. You might also Splinch yourself. So if you must travel long distances, try to break it up."

"I see," said Harry thoughtfully. "But within Britain, I should be fine?"

"Yes, though never push yourself, unless really necessary."

"Got it."

"Come," Dumbledore rose; Harry too mirrored him. The Headmaster removed one of the armchairs into nothingness, and set off towards the massive doors, with Harry following him. Halted near the entrance.

"To Apparate, we visualize the location and gather our magic to move from the spot we are currently at, and appear at the desired location. Watch."

Noiselessly, Dumbledore turned, and Apparated next to the lone armchair. Again he repeated his action and Apparated next to Harry. A faint ripple of magic ran over Harry's skin at the Headmaster's appearance.

"For your lesson, I have temporarily disabled the Anti-Apparition Charm over the Great Hall. Now, see the armchair?" Harry nodded in reply. "I would like you to Apparate to it. Focus on the destination, channel your magic—or use your wand, turn, and leave this spot…and appear at your destination."

Harry took out his wand. Rolled it about in his grip. Studied the intended target.

Below the steps of the High Table, the armchair loomed. Behind, the large golden chair reserved for Dumbledore gleamed in the glow of the floating candles. He slowly began to focus, yet it was hard to hold on it…akin to grasping a slippery bar of soap.

"Relax your shoulders," Dumbledore tapped them lightly. "Let your tension fade away. Remember how you prepare before a match in Quidditch? Apply the same calming techniques here."

"Yeah?" His breathing slowed; his muscles slackened, and the grip over the snapshot in his mind grew stronger. He loosened a breathy exhale and considered the next step.

_Drawing on my magic…does Dumbledore mean the strange flood of magic that night? But how to summon it? Later…let me focus through my wand…wait!_

Why couldn't he visualize his hand as his wand?

Raising his left hand, he tried to imagine it as a wand—a chamber of magic. Felt nothing. He tried, tried again, again until he felt his brain would burst. Frustration sparked through him; his eyes widened and he clung on to the emotion—and tried to push it towards his hand.

It warmed. The familiar sensation brushed within, sending a spiral of elation down his spine. His face opened in a silent laugh of joy.

"Well done," congratulated Dumbledore. "This is surprising, but welcome nevertheless. Now, for the final step...move towards your destination…"

Exhaling, Harry moved. Or so he thought. He remained in the same spot, facing a different direction to be sure, but it was failure. He persisted, yet with every passing minute, the burden of failure grew heavier. It was like he was looking up a huge brick wall, unable to surmount it.

"You are doing well," Dumbledore encouraged, after a particularly futile and frustrating sequence, where a thoroughly disheartened Harry flopped to the stone floor.

"How do you know?"

"I…" Dumbledore closed his eyes and his upper frame heaved, "…can feel it. There is a change about you, a change in your connection to magic that was not there before."

Harry nearly scoffed, but arrested his motion. Pushing himself up, he stared at the tantalizing armchair; the choicest words running amok in his mind.

"Keep focusing. You have to _want_ to move. Merely thinking it is not enough. Every…" Dumbledore tapped Harry's arm, "…part of you must feel the desire to move and appear elsewhere." Pointed at the armchair. "One more time."

Eventually the bewitched ceiling melted into a blue, reminiscent of an afternoon sky. Harry hardly noticed it, nor did he notice Dumbledore's glance at the entrance; so engrossed he was in trying to get his body obey.

All of a sudden, the hairs on his neck tingled; like he was being watched. He broke, turned, spied the purple spell hurtling towards him. His eyes widened, and he did the only action hammered into him in the last hour—he spun…

A loud _pop_ filled the Great Hall; next moment, he wobbled in front of the armchair. Surprise overtook him in mid-stagger; he caught himself, spun around, and promptly slapped his stomach to the stone slabs.

Behind him the armchair tripped backward, its tiny, squat legs up in the air.

"Get up!" growled a strange voice; his gaze lifted, picked out an even stranger character—

He rolled ungainly to avoid the next spell, scrambled up, fired off a Disarming Charm—

_Cover! The armchair!_

He shifted, yanked back his frame almost instantly to avoid the flying spells unleashed by the stranger.

_That man—he's cutting off my space! He didn't miss on purpose…they're designed to keep me out in the open! Only one way—_

To charge forward was suicide. He hopped over the incoming low spell, as though skipping rope, yelled _Furnunculus! _Ducked the next spell, sprang backward up onto the platform; dropped to his knees, snapped his head up. Saw the character take deliberate aim—

_Turn!_

His insides writhed and his feet struck stone. Pushing away the disorientation, he whipped up his wand just as the broad shoulders whirled around—

"_Expel—_"

"_Silencio!_" roared the stranger. "Got you now!"

And he pocketed his wand with a flourish and rested his hands on the ram-shaped head of his wooden staff.

Try as he might, Harry couldn't speak. His lips moved, forming spells, yet no sound came out. Fear gripped his heart. A familiar, debilitating emotion. His legs quivered, devoid of strength. The memories of the past few days flashed before him; his hand fled his throat, clapped over his eye as though to block out the memories—

"Enough," Dumbledore's voice, quiet as it was, broke through the silence. "Release him."

"That Potter?" inquired the growling voice, followed by sounds of _thunks_ and _clunks_. "Sure it is him?"

Still overcome, Harry only looked up when the sensation of human presence washed over him. Dumbledore stood nearby, his expression kindly as usual. Behind him was the stranger. His face was a wild display of scars, with a chunk of his sharp nose missing. Strangely, he had mismatched eyes—the electric blue jumped and corked about wildly, while the darker focused on him. To top off the unnerving picture, his left leg was a wooden one with a clawed foot.

Correctly interpreting Harry's unasked query, Dumbledore turned. "Harry, meet Alastor Moody. An ex-Auror and one of my oldest friends."

"Constant vigilance, lad!" barked Moody, and his magical eye spun in accompaniment with his shark-like grin. "He has something in him, Albus."

"Much more than you assume," murmured Dumbledore. Addressed Harry. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah."

"Do not beat yourself up," said Dumbledore. "You performed far better than Alastor expected, and besides, you also Apparated—not once—but twice."

"Both flukes," Moody said, and Dumbledore turned. "What? It's true!"

"What do you make of your little tussle with Alastor?" asked Dumbledore, turning back to Harry.

"I..." Harry paused, recalling the swiftness of the duel—if one could even call it so. "He took me by surprise, cut my cover, and caged me. Or tried to. Then...silenced me...I couldn't cast anything..."

"Excellent. While I did not wish to introduce you to the importance of non-verbal magic in such brutal fashion," Dumbledore glanced at Moody, "Alastor demonstrated part of what I eventually intended to bring up."

Harry nodded in understanding. It made sense in the larger picture…methods to escape, wandless magic, and nonverbal casting. Undoubtedly all of them were advanced magic and tough to master.

"But it is a matter for later," went on Dumbledore. "Focus on your Apparition for now."

"Remember what I said, lad? Constant vigilance! Once I took you by surprise—" Moody clicked his tongue, "—If you had been alert, you might have wrung this out for longer!"

A dull _thud_ carried around the Great Hall. Evidently, Dumbledore had restored the armchair back to its former condition. The Headmaster turned, met Harry's gaze.

"Harry, Alastor and I need to talk. Continue with your Apparition. And one more thing…"

"Yes?"

"Remember how it felt."

_How it felt…?_

Frowning, he stared at the armchair. Focused. Blocked out Moody's noise and frame. Drew his magic. Exhaled. And…_turned_.

Yet the wall again mocked his efforts. Despite his labors, success eluded him. As Moody's words repeated themselves ponderously, his spirits sank lower and lower.

At some point of time, the person in question strode past him wordlessly. Dumbledore remained on the platform, watching Harry.

"Harry," he said at length. "Wait."

Despondently, Harry stopped. He lifted his frustrated gaze up. The Headmaster indicated for him to draw closer.

"What do you think is the difference between you being unable to Apparate now, and able to Apparate then?"

Harry halted. Considered. After a few moments, it came to him. "I didn't…have time to think…I just turned, focusing my desire to get away, I think?"

"In other words," Dumbledore spread out his hands, "you ceased to think and just did it. Instinct."

"But…" Harry frowned, "…it's not possible to be in that state of…whatever you call it…all the time."

"Precisely. I do not seek to take away the magnitude of your achievement; you Apparated twice and without Splinching yourself. However, to truly Apparate, you must learn to do it even when you are calm, at peace."

"Well, it's not working out, is it?" Harry replied bluntly. "Sir," he added, in an attempt to sound polite.

"The secret," Dumbledore moved over to the High Table, and sat down, "is what you've been doing for the past few hours. You see, Harry, we consider it—practice—as an ugly activity. A vexing, tiresome word. Yet, I promise you, once you can Apparate without a burst of instinct, which incidentally is unsustainable, you shall continue to do it."

Harry opened his hands, gazed at the deep palm lines. "You said to feel it, the sensation of my entire body moving?"

"Absolutely. Wait," he added as Harry prepared to spin again. "While your tenacity is admirable, now is not the time to test it. Would you be so kind to join me for lunch?"

Right on cue, food appeared on the High Table. A soft hiss escaped Harry's lips. The brief spark of hope welling within his chest ceased; only to be replaced by the weight of his frustrations on his mind. Morosely, he traipsed towards Dumbledore.

"Do not be harsh on yourself," said Dumbledore as he approached the table and seated himself. "Too much overthinking only drags you further from your goal. Which I would do well to heed myself…" he murmured softly.

Easier said than done. But as he sank his teeth into the succulent meal, he slowly felt the exhaustion ebb away. Dumbledore showed no inclination in conversing, which helped matters.

Their solitude was interrupted by the noisy arrival of a house-elf. The elf wore what looked like a toga bearing the Hogwarts crest, and bowed.

"Headmaster Dumbledore is being needed in his office," the elf said in the typical squeaky voice of its kind. "At once."

"Very well," Dumbledore wiped his mouth with a napkin and rose. "Harry, after a half-an-hour, we shall meet here again. Until then you're free to do whatever you wish."

Harry nodded, addressed the house-elf. "Wait."

The elf looked at him. "Master be wanting something?"

"Could I have a quill and some parchment?"

"Of course." The elf disappeared and reappeared quickly with the requested items. "Here you go, Master. Master is done with his lunch?"

"Yeah."

Unravelling the parchment, Harry pressed the tip of the quill to the smoothness. He considered for a moment, then started writing. Once done, he read it over, then rolled it up, and set off towards the Owlery.

Inside the chilly building, he looked around. To his surprise, Hedwig was there; she flew down and perched on his shoulder. She clicked her beak and in a show of affection, nuzzled him.

"Good girl," he gave her the small piece of meat he'd brought from lunch, then held out the roll of parchment. "Take this to Daphne Greengrass, will you?"

She hooted and stuck out her leg. He tied his reply; she fluffed her wings and flew out of the glassless window. He watched her until she disappeared completely from sight, and descended the winding stairs.

As he pushed open the doors of the Great Hall, he spied Snape conversing with Dumbledore. At his approach, the Potions Professor looked up and raised his eyebrows, his lip curling simultaneously. A familiar, almost comforting gesture. Apparently, his rescue notwithstanding, Snape still hadn't softened towards him. Which was oddly reassuring.

"Come," Dumbledore beckoned over to Harry. For his part, Snape's cloak billowed behind him as he swept away from the Great Hall. "Would you be so kind to take out your wand?"

Harry obeyed. Dumbledore clasped his hands together; he made no movement to take out his wand—no surprise there.

"In the morning, we worked on your Apparition," Dumbledore began. "You've made remarkable progress already, and…" his eyes narrowed as though examining some part of Harry, then relaxed. "I believe you also gained a better understanding of your connection with magic, is it not?"

"Yes." And it was true, he did feel like he'd somehow gained a better understanding of the mysterious forces at his call.

"Excellent. Remember, think about what we discussed," said Dumbledore. "Now, for this period, we shall start with the basics. But," he leaned forward ever so slightly, "with a caveat."

Harry waited.

"We will practice in two sets. One with your wand, and one without your wand…" A tiny smile tugged his lips at Harry's determined expression. "Now, I would like you to take up a battle stance—any pose in which you feel most comfortable…"

"Comfortable as in?" asked Harry uncertainly.

"Imagine you are in a fight. Perhaps you've been caught by surprise yet again…by Moody. How will you react?"

Frowning, Harry dropped into a stance, his wand raised to chest-level. "This? I think it feels most natural…"

"A bit too textbook…" murmured Dumbledore. "Still not bad at all…hmm…"

He took hold of Harry's shoulders and gently tapped them. "Relax your shoulders. Your arm should be as fluid as a whip, able to strike from any angle accurately…"

Harry exhaled, allowing them to slacken.

"Some musings of an old man for you," Dumbledore adjusted Harry's footing, "Do not get too absorbed by the world of Duelling." Took a step back, and surveyed Harry critically. "While it is an undoubtedly fascinating world, it is also easy to get swept up by it."

"I thought it was quite the noted and popular activity?" responded Harry. "Isn't Professor Flitwick a Duelling Champion?"

"Correct. However, he also did not take much part in the last War, despite his formidable talents."

This sounded extremely strange to Harry. Some of his surprise was apparently visible, for Dumbledore continued on calmly.

"He found himself ill-suited for the battlefield. Unable to cope or adapt to the required mentality. For all of his knowledge, skill, and experience, his worst enemy was himself—unable to unleash himself, he suffered one too many close shaves."

"You make it sound like he was keeping himself in check unconsciously."

"Indeed. Duelling has certain rules, procedures, and etiquettes that are followed. However, in a fight…on the battlefield, there are no such rules."

Harry understood only too well. The memory of the previous skirmishes flashed before him; certainly the thugs hadn't been interested in duelling. They had fought to capture, to torture—

"Do not take my words as a rejection of Duelling, Harry," Dumbledore sounded as though he knew exactly what Harry had been thinking. "View it as a training ground, a means to understand various opponents, but do not delve too much into it."

"Got it…"

"It is my opinion—though others have mocked it as a fancy—that my students need to understand and use magic freely. Explore and reach their conclusions about what works for them, and focus on their strengths." Dumbledore ran a final eye over Harry and nodded in satisfaction. "Perfect. You already understand the importance of making yourself small and offering your side, yes?"

"Yes."

"Good. Remember, your athleticism and reflexes are some of your greatest strengths. Keep up your Quidditch activities, however difficult it may be. Last, but not the least, never show your back unless absolutely necessary."

"Got it." Harry returned his frame into one of normalcy, then dropped into his stance. "How does it look now?"

"Excellent. Repeat it one more time."

Time passed in profound repetition; finally reaching its finale after the better part of two hours, wherewith the Headmaster finally nodded in approval.

"Wonderful. As before, I would like you to keep practicing until this becomes part of your muscle memory. Now, ready to learn the first spell? Remember, we shall work in sets—fifty times with your wand, and without it."

Anticipation rushed over Harry. He screwed his expression into one of concentration, waiting…

"Sometimes, the basics are often the best. This spell should be self-explanatory—it's called the Shield Charm. As you might imagine, it creates a shield capable of blocking almost all, save for a few, spells and physical entities. The incantation is _Protego._"

Before Dumbledore, a nearly transparent barrier appeared. It glowed a faint blue, ripples of energy thrumming all over the curvature from the center.

"Try it now…"

"_Protego!_" Nothing happened.

"Remember, intent is everything. Fill yourself with your desire to protect, shield yourself, your friends…whom you hold dear…"

_Ron. Hermione._

"_Protego!_"

He felt rather than saw the outline of the shield shimmer into existence. It disappeared quickly; yet unlike the Patronus Charm, it felt much easier to call it.

"Very good," encouraged Dumbledore. "Again."

Pleased, he resumed the next set. It went well. He had no way of knowing its duration, but he sensed that it was definitely a longer go than the first few tries. With each frisson of success, his concentration grew fiercer. Eventually he lowered his wand and raised his free hand.

"You know; I must confess…I am most keen to see the results of this exercise."

"No pressure," said Harry dryly and Dumbledore chuckled.

"None at all. You've already demonstrated an aptitude for wandless magic."

"The fall…" muttered Harry, repressing a shiver at the recollection of the awful, whistling wind.

"That as well," replied Dumbledore. "Contrary to popular opinion, wandless magic is not some last-ditch wildcard—available during moments of great emotion."

Harry frowned. "I don't think I've ever heard of it being taught in Hogwarts…am I wrong?"

"No," Dumbledore sounded despondent. "While I am open to teaching wandless magic in Hogwarts, unfortunately, it is one of those rare areas of magic that is heavily regulated by the Ministry of Magic."

"Whatever for?"

"Look at your wand," said Dumbledore. "Certain spells—like the Reverse Spell—allow the Ministry to view the last few spells you've performed. This is of particular benefit to law enforcement, as you may imagine. With wandless magic, it is possible to remain undetected, which the Ministry does not appreciate, especially in regard to certain laws—such as the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and the International Statute of Secrecy."

"I see…"

"Not only that, wandless magic, by its nature, is tapping into magic itself. Instead of your wand—" Dumbledore indicated Harry's wand again, "—you become the conduit for magic, and that requires immense discipline and skill. However, it is possible to tap into it at minimal risk…to a certain level. But if you do not have the skill to…tame it, you risk great damage…to your person."

"All what you're saying makes it sound dangerous," observed Harry.

Dumbledore smiled genially. "Ah, Harry, magic by its very nature is neutral, indeterminate. It is a matter of perspective…a question of how you would wield it. One may view magic as a gift…another may view it as a tool of destruction…and yet another may use it for healing. Now, if you would kindly begin…"

Harry concentrated. Gestured with his hand. "_Protego!_"

"As you may imagine, there is also another reason why wands are preferred by us," Dumbledore continued. "Whenever you can, do read up on the history of wands. A most fascinating read, but I digress. Accuracy is the reason why wands are so popular."

Harry paused and stared at Dumbledore. "Accuracy?"

"Yes. Please continue," Dumbledore indicated for Harry to resume the set. "A wand offers unparalleled accuracy, which is important for any caster. If your spell doesn't land, there is obviously no effect. Staves, as you may have noticed Alastor carry—his walking stick, Harry—offer increased power, but less accuracy—"

"_Protego! _And wandless magic?"

"Flexibility. Control. Wandless magic offers neither power nor accuracy. But personally, I would be more cautious of a wandless caster than a wizard with a wand. For the most skilled wandless caster can be a greater threat than any other wizard. Which, I believe, you can be one day."

Harry looked away, feeling the shadow of the familiar doubt rise within. Next moment, he banished it.

_If Dumbledore believes so, what is stopping me?_

He exhaled. Set his features. Whispered the spell.

And smiled, as brilliant light flared to life, bathing his face in cobalt blue.

"Excellent!" cried out Dumbledore. "Well done!"

He paid no attention, focusing hard on maintaining the spell. The magic sang through his veins, a joyous rapture feeding off his elation and determination to _protect_. He held on, held on until with a great gasp, he let go and the shield vanished. Looked up to see Dumbledore smiling proudly at him.

"Remarkable," he said. "Certainly you do pick up things fast on a practical basis. Remember though, theory is equally important. Now, proceed with summoning your shield."

For how long he kept practicing, he had no idea. The sensation was intoxicating, yet the fatigue kept building up. It taxed his mind, seeping down to his very muscles, and wringing out every last drop of energy despite little movement on his part.

"Well done," Dumbledore said, when he finally dropped his arms and collapsed to the ground. "I would like to test your shield, but it is a matter for tomorrow."

"I'm ready—" Harry made to spring up, but Dumbledore raised his hand.

"No," he said firmly. "While I understand the temptation to push yourself, rest is important too. You are spent—though you may hide it, I can see—"

He broke off at the appearance of Hedwig. As Harry watched in surprise, Hedwig gracefully landed on his shoulder and stuck out her leg. Attached on it was a scroll; he divested it off her.

"Good girl," he murmured. "I'll get you something to eat later, OK?"

She hooted, and with a flutter of wings, took off. Unfurling the scroll, he read:

_Dear Harry,_

_I am glad to hear you are up and well. My parents would like to personally thank you, and cordially invite you for dinner tomorrow at 7 PM at Greengrass Gardens. As a token of goodwill, they also request that you bring along a guardian._

_I do hope to see you again before start of term._

_Daphne Greengrass_

His brows lifted in surprise. Met Dumbledore's gaze. The Headmaster gave a tiny nod, his expression ever calm.

"What do you think?" asked Harry, after a few moments of silence.

"It is your decision. Though, I imagine they would be quite disappointed if you were to decline their invitation."

"It…just feels strange, you know? Like…I'm not sure how to react…" Harry wagged the scroll absentmindedly, not noticing the light in Dumbledore's eyes diminish. "Still…I think I'd like to go…"

"If I may be so bold to offer my opinion," Dumbledore said softly, "I also agree."

"Who'll be able to accompany me?" asked Harry.

He swiftly ran through an admittedly short mental checklist. The Weasleys weren't an option, and he had little interest in fending off Mrs. Weasley's likely insistence for him to return. Hagrid wasn't a wise choice. Lupin…his heart lurched at the thought of his former Professor; as much as he would have loved his father's old friend to join him, it probably wasn't a good idea when the reason behind his resignation was still fresh.

Which left McGonagall…and Dumbledore…

Dumbledore considered for a moment, folding his robed arms together, then smiled. "Me. If you agree, I would be glad to accompany you on this delightful excursion."

"But…wouldn't it be too much trouble?"

"Not at all, Harry. After all, even a Headmaster needs a break now and then!"


End file.
